Whose Universe?

I sat on my picnic table that night in late winter

            As it tried to be spring.

My yellow cat sitting hard by my side.

I looked up and across the stars that spilled

            From the Big Dipper.

Saw Venus high, arcing into the night

Spotted Orion’s Belt and Casseopia, sparkling,

            All in their honored places.

How many centuries have others craned heads back

            And assured themselves that these spots spin round year on year.

I looked down at my yellow cat and felt sad for a moment

that he knew nothing of the clouds of Venus

nor the rings of Saturn

nor the cycle of the Big Dipper.

How little of the universe did he know.

But as I watched, I saw his head rise, his eyes widen,

            His ears turn slightly.

His nose twitched, inhaling, and his whiskers swept forward.

I looked into the darkness following the direction of his eyes

            And saw nothing.

I listened closely, head tilted, and heard only the last oak leaves

            Crackling on their branches.

I sniffed the breeze and smelled only the warming soil.

And I wondered if my yellow cat felt sad for a moment

            that I knew nothing of the scents carried on the wind,

nor the whispers of little feet,

nor the shadows of the moving night.

How little of the universe do I know.