Athena H.

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.