It is not uncommon to be eighty

and never to have seen the aurora borealis

but now, primed by a news and weather alert

I stand to see if it might happen. 

 

A belt of translucent high cloud holds firm

above a street light under a gash of dark trees

but no aurora. 

A scent of sleeping blossom has me in thrall

and on the ridge of my kitchen roof

the silky silhouette of a cat catches my eye

 

seeing both its ears I know it regards me

without curiosity while my world waits.