The cat was on the roof.

This was a good thing. There was just a coyote across the street, barking for ten minutes at the
neighbor’s iron fence. Yes, apparently they do bark, and quite loudly. I went back inside after the
coyote gave up his loud barking and trotted on down the street, obviously to pick something up
at the liquor store on the corner. It was one of those nights, I say. I’m sorry I missed it, you say.

But you’re not so sorry, I think. Rising and shining makes sense to you. We are very different in
this way. I like looking up at the bright, big moon on a clear night and being nearly convinced I
am the only person in the whole world. There are a few stars twinkling as they join me, and there
also is the chunky opossum lumbering along in my direction. He is looking for any stray pieces
of kibble, not a human companion at this late hour.

Soon, I will need to go back in, to the dishes, to the stack of mail, to the many words floating
around in unedited arrangements on my page. It’s a gift, you know, this time—not just that I
have it but that I realize that I do, night after night under the inky blue sky. It wouldn’t look like
much to most, even you, but no matter. Maybe tonight I’ll dream of the lives yet to be lived or
I’ll mourn the paths I can never seem to take. Or neither. Maybe tonight I will impulse-purchase
the pet stroller I’ve been eyeing online for years. It could be a big night.

Somewhere close, the pleasing chime of birdsong starts up. It is the night bird, or so I call her.
She sings very sweetly by herself. I am ready to go in, but still it is one of those nights.

The cat is still on the roof.