The Felinus Age

is drawing to its close;

Gunwald cutting down considerably

on eating;

birds & mice free of fear

and cat food left untouched

that used to be gulped in a jiffy;

the whiskered & clawed retreating

onto the water heater in under the sink unit,

after vomiting on the hall floor

as if in a ceremonial cleansing,

remaining still under the sink

as the Buddha himself under the Bodhi tree,

like he's attained Enlightenment

Ram Narayan plays his sarangi

in the long, winding lamentations

of Rag Bhupal Tori & Rag Patdip

on a Nimbus recording from 1988,

while the fire wheezes & crackles,

playing its pile of wood

in the living room stove downstairs,

my muffled heartbeat up here

in the bedroom's Great Ship of Dreams

bouncing its tabla mimicry;

the world outside holding its chilly breath

at -19°C,

the three equine beings

- Tinker Moses, Shetland Pony Tornado

& Gotland Pony Russin -

standing close together

out in the snowy pasture, dozing off

after their morning hay feast,

not in the slightest affected by the early winter chill

I grieve Gunwald the Cat prematurely,

Ram Narayan's bow stroking my nerves

as I sense my furred longtime friend's oncoming demise,

the woodpecker knocking its irregular bursts

on the house on the hill,

mixing its rhythms from without

with Suresh Talwalkar's ferocious pointillism

within;

my life a soundboard in which I lie,

old & weary

in my mountain hike sleeping bag

that makes obsolete any temperature concerns,

until I've gotten myself together enough

to go out to the 1967 wood burner

in the garage building, to convince it

to distribute its hot water in the pipings' circular motion

through all the radiators in the main building,

pulling off our excess woollen sweaters in the process,

as I remain fully aware of the terms & conditions

under which this intermittent adventure

we call life

performs its wonders