There was a black cat on the walk this mild April evening, fortelling the black, night. He was sitting in a driveway, staring at me mildly, eyes very bright, as a mild April evening became the April night, sealing off forever this mild April day.
And that’s all I’ll say, except how much the breeze flutters the little leaves above the ramshackled house on another block, where an old lady lives, all in darkness now, her hammock no longer slung across her little porch, and the tiny model sailboat set upon the sill of the window facing into the carport–that’s missing, too.
And the purple Club House flag, flapping in the breeze, is flying at half-staff, indicating a death in the community. Was it that old woman? I haven’t seen her lately. I hope she’s still with us.
But, if not, living or deceased, I choose to see her happily setting sail, as if that tiny model sailboat were the real thing, large as life –sailing her off forever across the April moon, borne by the mild April breeze into the April night.
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