photo by Shashank Sahay on Unsplash.com
The Last Thing To Go
The porch is all but bare this morning,
its spaciousness an eerie indication.
There is a hummingbird posing on the feeder.
I wondered if the petite avians would visit today
and was glad to see him.
He doesn’t know that the buffet will be closing soon.
A light rain is tapping a gentle rhythm on the tin roof.
A squirrel makes her appearance,
then disappears into the tree.
Two cats come up to greet me, one by one.
The fluffy, satin deva is exiting the porch now.
She lifts her tail in acknowledgment as she hears me tell her “goodbye.”
I trust that she knows how to take care of herself and will be safe.
I want to bring her inside, though,
and the strawberry blonde beauty who is purring on my lap,
because I know what is coming.
This rocker on which I am sitting will be the last thing packed away.
The people of the Gulf Coast know what the day before a hurricane feels like.