Six cats walk tonight. Three cats of flesh, blood and bone. Three cats born of the full moon, shadow cats, deep, dark and velvet black. For we watched as the full moon rose, pink on the horizon, yellow as it flew higher and now bone white and bright in the night. And the sky is bleached of stars by the light, and the field of wheat is pale gold in the almost daylight brightess. Or maybe it is just the memory of the gold that lingers and paints in the colour.
It is still. Not a cloud spoils the beauty of the moon filled sky. Not a whisper of breeze. So quiet you can hear the claw clack of a cat paw on the silvered path. Across a field an owl calls and somewhere fireworks shatter the silence with rude eruptions. In the grass things stir.
Our mirror eyes, big in the dark, are pools of moonlight.