The cat, black and white, paces a few yards ahead
He dismissed himself from our morning coffee and kibble ritual
And now sits at a seemingly random spot, looking, waiting
And so I stop too, and wait and watch the watcher
But having less discipline or comparative desire
I walk on, thinking that I know what this cat is doing.
The sheep, now in the higher pasture, are along my way
And so I stop and visit from a distance that they determine
(Something deep within has told them that my kind is
Or at least something less than trustworthy)
They eat with gusto the grain that the shepherd brings
Pushing and shoving.
Bleating…are they saying something to me?
I walk on, and look at my breakfast, hoping to find
A bowl of words, offered by some kind shepherd
As the grass in my pasture has withered some;
There has been a drought.
Still I am challenged, nay burdened to find the meaning of things
Perhaps also to find the meaning of my search for meaning.
The best I can do for now is walk a bit and wait for it to come.