Humidity and a whiff of regret

It is morning and Ida remains asleep. She has been sleeping in much of late, but I have not the heart to wake her until morning is well upon its way.

The morning is filled with silences: the coos of a dove in an ancient oak, the coffee pot percolating, the mind arranging the day's news.

The kitten? Gone. The incessant mewling has ceased. I must imagine vigorously to find it safely nuzzled against the feline belly for which it cried and cried or to picture it curled on a corner of a someone's sofa, someone with more affinity to St. Francis than myself. I imagine, and I do so vigorously.