July 17 2008, 09:00 PM Lead Ring

Last night, the circus of kittens took up station on various stoops on the street and sang a choir for unknown reasons. I stepped out onto the porch to investigate and found two of them, as cute as possible, nonchalant and quiet. They looked at me as disdainful artists might look upon critics, those from the tribe that can only offer reaction instead of creation. I do not think that a fair assessment of the art of criticism, but I got the distinct impression that the cats would not hold much care over such sentiments. All of the singing stopped, though: the night returned to silence perhaps due to audience, more likely for other grounds.

The kittens are feral, living as a family with their parents under a nearby Japanese maple. The mother has been seen worrying, stalking. The father is a vast bulk, a trophy cat, a giant heap of gravity plopped atop pathways with a swishing tail, taking to shade in these hot days. The light falls relentless out there, warm and bright. The kittens do not care, and romp in the yard.

I do not mow the lawn as much as I perhaps should. It is good to let it grow a little long, particularly in the heat; the grasses shade themselves as they know how to do, the thick carpet keeps water in the soil. There is also the pleasant sight of the winds rippling the blades, movements of air visible, patterns flowing through the yard and on to places elsewhere, once again unseen. I take great joy in watching it, except as a signal that I should really mow the grass. The kittens had much fun in the long stuff, too: jumping, rooting, chasing bugs and tumbling together, splashes of color in the gently waving green. I mowed the lawn the other day, robbing them of their little savanna.

I could plant cat mint for them, but I do not know if it would be kind.

The cicadas sing mechanical, hidden in the leaves of the trees. They mask the distant rumblings of cars and planes with stuttering starts, arcs of trembling rattle, the slow stalling before they ready themselves to begin again. There is still a trickle of raspberries, and a bowl of gooseberries sits on the counter. I am on the porch with a cold drink from Andalusia and a bright cheese from just east of there, each from a tradition as old as the other. The evening heat is a soft press on the shoulders, the temples, the small of the back.