The Cat and the Night

The Cat watched the city as veins of smoke rose from chimneys. The moon had drowned the city in that dark ocean known as Night. Clouds swim like calligraphy written upon the midnight blue hues of the sky, engraving sonnets for owls. The streetlamps but small stepping stones which lead travellers down forgotten streets. 

The Cat lazily unfolded his body limb by limb until he was standing on the roof, watching people pass by occasionally, shooting stars amongst sombre waters. The Cat weaved his way down to a banister. His gaze brushed against two women seated on the other side of the window, a candle painting their eyes, ears and teeth. A moment as brief as light as the Cat's interminable watch continued to were buildings met road, his body followed shortly after. The sound of his paws breaking the silence like that of hushed tales of witches and fairies.

As the Cat travelled through the city, he passed restaurants who housed dreary conversation and children buried in the dust of sleep. Still, he walked onwards as the sighs of the river drew near. 

By now the moon was high overhead, and the rain had begun to bleed through the tapestry of stars and sky. It drifted down entangled with spirits of melancholy and joined the Cat on the road. Yet still he followed the river, and he did so for a long time, occasionally crossing the bridge only to drift forward in the same direction. The stream of gold which flows from the streetlamps transformers the rain into beads of glass threading itself onto the Cat’s fur.

While the Cat still took in every breath of fox and snore of man, his strides slowed and his eyes began to relent to the gravity of night. Presently he came across a bench. It was wet from endless conversation with drizzle. It glimmered in the celestial light as the rain slid down the back, settling in a pool of reflection on the seat. The Cat crept up and curled around himself, watching the river carry the silence that drifted through windows and slid under doors.