On Joshua Kyle Watson

In a quiet back way, I met a colorful alley cat. Or, I should say, I stumbled right over him. He’d been basking in the sun in plain sight, minding his own business. Yet I, in my absentmindedness, hadn’t even seen him.

But then it was me sprawled on the cobblestones, surprised to be there on the ground, and him looking sidelong at me, still in his posture of relaxation but equally surprised at my bumbling arrival.

I’d expected him to run off then, as you well know cats do when they meet the toe end of your clumsy feet. Instead, he just curled his tail closer to himself and shut his eyes in apparent bliss. It seemed the warmth of his chosen sunbeam held more appeal than acknowledging my slight against him.

When I shifted to be on my way, I too found myself loathe to go. I wondered if he was a magic cat who made those near him feel content. Or maybe we were both just caught in the thrall of a lazy afternoon. Either way, I stopped there in my journey for a while and sat against the wall next to him. Until the sun had shifted down behind the buildings, we listened to the buzzing hubbub of those passing the alley who were too busy to pause and enjoy a little sunshine.

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