Prowling through the shadows, unnoticed.
Listening to the fading sounds as daytime draws to a close.
Waiting for the right time to run across the deserted street, out of sight.
Now is the time.
Across the road. Up the kerb. Through the gate. Along the path.
Onto the doorstep.
Sit and wait.
Wait.
And sit.
The door creaks open slowly.
“There you…”
In.
Inside.
In the warmth.
By the fireside.
Lie.
Stretch.
Yawn.
Curl.
Purr.
The Mansionic Perspective 
Beautiful black cat. Dangerous for him this season.
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Black cats are gorgeous, Beverly, aren’t they?
Mind you, they all are…
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Those familiars always tend to be unfamiliar!
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They can be aloof at times, Col, yes.
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What a handsome fellow!
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I thought so too, Diane!
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L.O.V.E. … both the fabulous poem and the magical cat. But then I would. He’s very much like THE Alf Capone who lives here in Cobweb Towers. ❤ 🙂
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sigh … I meant short story … I wrote poem, but I mean short story. sigh
(I’d be dangerous if I ‘ad a brain). ~ C. tsk tsk.
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No worries, Cobs… poem or short story is fine with me (for I have no idea what this bunch of words actually is! 😀 )
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Very distinguished, Cobs, if you ask me.
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Hope they keep him/her home over the next 21 days – we have some sick bastards round here who tie fireworks to cat’s tails…>:(
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Oh, I’ve just sent out a KARMA wish into the Universe for those people, Prenin.
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