As he has each morning,
Treebeard, the orange tabby,
Leads me down the stairs
For a first cup of coffee.
Today he shows his age
As he descends the stairs—
Something off in each soft pad’s
Touch upon each familiar step.
He stops at the end, and meows
To be let out into the dark.
I slide the door open; he sniffs
The cold air, then slips away.
I watch him move through the flowers;
I shiver, not knowing what to do next.
(January 5, 2018)
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