Darkness drapes her sharp shoulders,
only to be lifted by spotlit circles from overhead lamps.
These pavements, her stage.
The cold seeps through cushioned pads
hardened by time and life.
She take in her circuit,
her territory,
to notice new invading sights and
telling scents of unknown beings,
friend or foe.
The wind lifts,
sending a torrent of leaves to
tear from the branches and
swoop, as seagulls, around her.
With the gust, a cry is carried.
She flinches to a pause.
To hold as still as unmossed stone,
as silent and unmoved as
that lonely naked rock.
Eyes widen,
pinpointing any scuttle or scamper.
Ears rotate,
senses performing better than
any radar.
All is fine.
All is quiet.
As it should be.
Satisfied, she turns,
jumps the wooden fence
at the spot she knows
is easiest.
Across damp lawn to
enter through her own private door.
She shakes the night from her fur to
curl up,
content in the knowledge that
her solitary streets stay safe.
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