WHAT THE CAT KNOWS

by Philip Miller

The cat knows the sounds
of the could seasons,
the settlings and siftings,
the scratch of dry leaves
against glass panes,
can even hear your bones
crack: his ears twitch,
his fur crackles with autumn static.
Then he looks at you,
his ears alert, onto something
beyond human range:
he sharpens his gaze toward the hall,
marble-eyed,
beauty all you can see
is the old ladderback by the door,
empty, of course, the candlesticks
on the mantle glinting gold
from the late afternoon sun,
the tall, gilt mirror flashes,
but the cat knows
something you can feel
only a little in your bones,
another secret of the house
making itself known.
He looks back at you
as if you should know too,
you with your store of words like spirit,
ghost, shadow, but with no word to describe
exactly what his sharp ears
have caught.