Dreams of Orion

A cat sits still on the windowsill,

eyes two lanterns of endless sky,

tail curled like a question mark

that already knows the answer.

She breathes in galaxies,

purring in the tongue of stars,

her whiskers tuning forks

for the silence between thoughts.

Every pawstep falls on eternity,

each claw a crescent moon—

yet she never scratches time,

only kneads it soft as bread.

Mice scurry through illusions,

humans chase their shadows,

but the master blinks once—

and all becomes still.

At night she leaps,

not onto rooftops

but through constellations,

threading Orion into her dreams.

The lesson is simple:

sit, watch, breathe,

be both the hunter and the stillness,

and let the universe curl in your lap.