Satellites

Satellites are placed into orbit by something of greater mass,

Jupiter and his sorority of moons,

the Sun and the planets,

houses and cats.

I have named each and every one of these feline visitors that patrol our home.

There is Big Davy, the largest of the colony.

There is Starfish, a tiger patched calico

who hates to leave a good chin scratch, but must continue her travel,

and there is petite B,

a favorite in the eyes of the planets inhabitants,

a mystery that passes through

before she is swiftly eclipsed by the wilderness wedged between us,

her raised comet tail the last thing we see as she hurries away.

These celestial beings are a comedy of errors

from the spyglass atmosphere of windows,

Starfish gives birds clues of their impending doom by the erratic swish of her elaborate tail,

Big Davy seems a big bruiser, an asteroid-ic threat to any in his path,

until a branch snaps, and he flees, or attempts too, anchored by his primordial pouch,

and then there is B,

who loves to stare at us blankly.

These satellites

are visitors, we know this,

and so do they,

always wary of how close we get,

prepared to evade the course in case we collide,

but if we do,

they can rest

retire their feral ways and acclimate to our environment.

This poem is dedicated to a “satellite” we took in about 15 years ago. She was so small when we found her, just a little kitten that needed a lot of help, and over the years she gave us so many memories. We love you, Nancy.