prodigal cat

She sits on the porch chair, on the living room rocking chair or the back of the couch close to the fireplace, on any available lap, on the keyboard when I type, on any book I try to read, on my stomach or hip or side while I sleep. She hides behind us on the windowsill when dogs pass, in the grasses waiting for lizards, under the table in dining room. She licks daintily her dry food in the kitchen, her wet food on the porch, rain water from the pitchers on the front steps, any food we share from the tips of fingers. Peony has returned (for a little while, anyway).