Talking heads bobble.
My inner witch cobbles an awful howl of a hyena’s cackle.
So, I cast myself into the prowling orange cat and he into me;
leaving my body still and purring, and I becoming him trotting over superfluous, left leaves.
Leavening. Bread trying to rise on the level.
Yeasty and active.
Pouncing high onto window ledges to stick my wet, pink nose against panes where it surely doesn’t belong.
Letting slant rhymes mime poetry because cats don’t have to be wordsmiths.