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June 14th  2011    Tim Candler

      The Grey cat is gone.  I remember the first of him and I remember the last of him, but the New Me cages Raspberry so there is no value in a walk through the adventure of sadness.  When I see the Grey Cat and call his name, or hear a scratch at the window and wonder, I know it's that old fool who once inhabited the thing that is me, still clinging to the small ways of the other world.  When I crawl on hands and knees along the hedges where the Grey Cat used to hunt I know it's the way back to when I was two or three and a half.

     Then this morning a Little Rabbit, his ears no larger than a thumb nail, watched me from the perennials.  He was alert in a yellow Day Lilly that has a bloom so clear it looks frosted.  We spoke of course, and when I yelled and pointed and made those noises so familiar from the political class, he appeared only to be amused by me, because he has I think decided to live in the Laurel Hedge, at the very center of things, yards from the Vegetable Garden, inches from all that clover. And I imagine he wonders why no one thought of making it their home before.

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