We have all been taught is it rude to not listen to someone's story during dinner.
But try as I might,
My eyes involuntary tip-toe to my left and stare out the panes
Two large doors, doubling as windows, open to the patio
Which is currently conquered by snow.
Looking out, a thick down comforter of chilly white
Covers the patio and the whole of the backyard.
Large clumps frosting the branches of the dignified oak
And the little bushes lining the fence.
But when the snow was absent
And grass stood green,
My sister and I plop down in surrender
Into the streaming light of the window
After an afternoon of towel-whipping.
The warmth greets our skin
With the brilliance of meeting an old friend again.
We are cats; lazily basking in the warm light
Watching the wind slowly rustle leaves off the old oak.
Summer sprints by and our window illustrates
A burgundy scheme.
The little bushes are not as lush.
The old oak's feathers deepen to a rusty purple
Before she is ordered to molt them off.
Before the grass browns
Before the snow blankets the earth.
Before I turn my attention to the conversation once more.