You were sitting near the old pecan tree, frozen in your tail’s long shadow. I didn’t see you until I crossed the busy street and invaded your territory. Your claws sank into rough, wrinkled bark, and suddenly you were high above me on a moss-covered bough, posed like the cheap figurine on my grandmother’s shelf. The drowsy sun drooped through the leaves behind you. Your silver-tipped tail scolded the fading light. Did you fear you’d miss the last sweet nuts remaining under mottled leaves? I wondered how you’d spot them. It’s said you’re blind to colors; your sparing eyes wring them out and leave a dull and pallid palette. If this is true, you can never view my crazy quilt of hues—
soft yellows whispering from sassafras leaves,
No. Your wanting eyes paint gray-scaled rainbows arcing through whitewashed skies.