Night Wind

The night wind

and I, unshod,

the grass black

and soft

underfoot.

In the wind,

unspoken sentiments,

the stars obscured,

one or two

I count.

In, I look

through an open window,

unseen by my own past self

sitting in a dimly lighted room,

pen unmoving

against the page,

I, then, unaware
of my own soon path,

on my lap, unbidden,

my cat, she leapt,

settled, then resting

her black and white head

against the wooden table top,

her contentment unheard -

but not quite.

And then I pass on by,

unobserved by no one,

surely not by him, sitting.

I, now quietly unconcerned

by what no longer is -

or nearly so -

looking ahead

into a soft dark.

The night calls

indifferently,

but not unknown.

A warm night wind

and I, unshod,

sentiments unspoken.