In a dim-lit alley, where shadows play their game, A wizened man and alley cat, not quite the same.

He, with wisdom etched in lines so fine,
She, with whiskers twitching, tales of nighttime.

"Ah, feline," quoth he, "your stealth and grace, Yet your nights are spent in this grimy place."

She eyed him with a flick of disdain,
"Pardon me, sir, are you not too inane?"

"But see," he mused, "we share a certain plight, You chase your dreams in the shroud of night,

And I, old chap, have chased my own,
Through years and years that time has sown."

The cat, unruffled, arched her back,
"Your wit may sparkle, your mind may crack,

But tell me, old man, as you ponder fate,
Does age bring wisdom, or merely weight?"

He chuckled softly, with a sly grin,
"Ah, little one, your cynicism is thin.

For life, it bends and twists like this old street, And wisdom's found in every winding beat."

She twitched her tail, a silent reply,
As to youth, side by side.

So as they lingered, night's curtain drawn, Reflections mirrored at the break of dawn,

The old man sighed, the cat
purred low, Each knowing truths only shadow knows.



© AJ Wappelhorst/Bear Klan Media