I am sitting and writing at the kitchen table. It is not my kitchen. I am looking after cats who are equally not mine. There is no curtain, and the light is bright tumbling through open blinds. It feels warm. It makes the world inviting.
I am watching a parade, a shadow parade. The power lines are dark stripes of blocked light on the wall of the building next door. There are seven squirrels, maybe more, running back and forth over them. Their shadows fascinate the cats more than any toy ever could. They travel in shooting gallery rows. They travel like camel caravans. They flash movement and my eyes are drawn away from my screen.
This is probably a turf war, not clowning. But I don’t speak their language, so I don’t know for sure what it means when one scurries out, and stops dead in the middle of the line, shadow paused, and another comes up from behind, pounces and races back the way he came. The victim only follows for an instant. Then he resumes in the original direction, finishes his tightrope walk as I finish my text, and he’ll never know that I was watching, hidden inside.