The White Cat Walking.

I am The White Cat and I walk with dogs, over the hills and far away.

I walk where the air is still, where the only sound is the rattle of wings and the calls of the tumbling ravens overhead.

I walk with the dogs, Larry and Bella, old now and slow. Once they ran fast, over the hills and far away, hunting for wild scents, foxes, creatures.

I walk where the old stone house stand, sleeping stones holding the memories tight, where the ghost cats walk, and we are watched by a small herd of horses.

Here there are walls, tumbled by age, that once were a cottage. Some are just fields stone, but some are worked and you can see where a doorway was. Old stones, old homes, time, passing.

I walk beneath a sky that mirrors my plumage, wild white and dappled, silvered and beautiful. A warm day. Autumn.

Then home, a quiet corner, I curl and watch the world go by and preen and dream cat’s dreams, until the next walk. For these are the adventures of The White Cat, and I am The White Cat, walking.

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