Tonight, by the light of the quarter moon we walk. The wind is rising. Pixie and Max are sheltering, warm in the kitchen. Only Elmo follows. The moon is almost bright enough to pick out his flame coat and he looks well, sleek. He watches over Her as they walk, and talks to himself, to Her, singing a cat song to the moonshadow cat who keeps pace beside him. Starlight.
The ground is shattered and splintered beneath the trees, shadow and moonlight, silver and dark.
I call, on the edge of the wind, on the edge of memory, a feint cat cry in the wind. And I walk with them too, ghost cat, watchful, shadow and moonlight.