Bird in the oak overhead,
loud as a cat but too high up.
Besides I can see the cat
curled up on the plant table,
earnestly asleep on his paws.
He climbed over the fence
to get there,
although there is an open path
a few feet away.
He must have learned this way
of being from me, it’s how
I’ve lived my life.
Never taking the easy route.
But I have paid more dearly than he
and crawling over the gate,
splintered fingers, scraped knees,
has never yielded the contentment
he now feels.


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