Recently, waking to a world
with fog-scapes and green grass
I heard the cry of a cat–
lone, hungry and waiting.
She sat beneath thorn berries,
heard northwestern birds,
plenty to eat around them.
Everything reflects in her eyes,
chin at rest between two paws
Is there memory of warmth?

In fog-scapes,
I wear green colored glasses,
made of beach salvage bottles,
rimmed in copper wire.