Before the sun quite remembers itself…

Purramble soft as a whisper

Dawn drips through shutters like spilled milk

Inkbreath under sandalwood light

Scritchy-scratchy-boop theology

The bookseller hums a dust psalm

And exhales the alphabet like quiet between two bargains

I, whisker prophet

Tailquill oracle of teaweather

Sunpurr. Storycurl. Flutter-tailed thing.

He reads to me from the Book of Small Sleeps

His fingers the soft punctuation of kindness

Ancient soul unhurried as his book opens

The world folds in on itself

Purrhaps again I am the reader

Pounclet of thought. Furshadow of faith.

The air is stitched with voices

I spot the mindloom beneath threadbare awnings

The narrow street beats its dusty pulse

 

Zoomie roomie dust dancer…

Blanket gravity

The market clinks and argues in perfumed sunlight

Napflux. Blanketwarp. Floofstorm. Zoomieverse.

Then psss psss psss…

His fingers pausing

Scittering question mark puffy explosion

Ripplestep whisper listener soft footed scribe.

Spy from under his chair

While the market mumbles out of morning

Slipping between stacks in cardamom air

Skyscrapers of dust and leather scents

Paw poet

Prayer call drifting

Market murmur fades to tea quiet

I, shelf shadow

Offer my gentle sigh

 

The market in full sun…

Paperlight patchwork shadows

Rustle of pages slow hum of barter

I offer whisker wiggles and slow blinks of trust

The quiettide gives way to afternoon wordwinds

In this saffron hour window calling

The market sneezes coins

I chase their shimmer through market dreams

My naplet follows the sun spots

As the spinemender drinks librament

Each story veil beckons me

Sandals shuffle

Pigeons lift

A radio coos faint poetry

My velvet-footed steps echoed by a fellow sneaklet

Then…watchful as a chimney acrobat

I spy the market dogs

Quiet-stepping my way along the clouds

I return to the doorway philosopher

His wordniche and calm companionship

As the market hums beyond

 

The sacred dimming and surrender to color…

Shadows rehearse the art of remembering their owners

Tea breathes small storms into cups

Children laugh and the wind threads fabrics

I stretch time between my toes

Whisper built and soft as a rumor

I admire the paper stacks leaning like tired soldiers

Mirthpaw to a small visitor

Scurrying through the bookhaze

The narrow street bends like an unspoken thought

The smell of tea offers its promise

The slowing crowdweave explores the bazaar

And no one acknowledges the keeper of quiet corners

Except for scritchy-scratchy-boops from little hands

I hear his tea kettle whistle

And return to chase the last sunbeams out of the door

With one magnificent shimmy

The sky opens its pockets

Spills all the orange it saved

Someone calls a prayer

Someone calls a child

 

Night’s gentle guard…

Rooftops exhale smoke that dreams of mountains

The streets sigh themselves empty

Father drift home

The world smells of fatigue

My final weave between the cityscape of words

Worn spines. Rustling Pages. The booksellers clothing

Scooting and tapping and the soft shifting of books

His hurried shuffles around the quiet forge

Now another world begins

As his leather steps announce his arrival

Towards his finalmeal

The moon signs its name in pawprint along the way

Shadow dweller surveys dreamtide’s slumbercall

A whisper in fur and a starlight hunter

I watch as lamplight hums old lullabies to moths

Tricksy and nebulous

Pawprint logic outside the open window

With a sleepy ripplestep and a whiskerwhirl

I quietcurl into snuggle singularity.