The cat-saint, reflecting on one in particular, finds time to say,
“Rains can't wither tails any more nor a tabby's puff-cheeks, powdery ear, the cute crystal-moth nose, too--
no, not as long as I’m near.
She is to me all egress, a pure window on a hot dusty world, assailed by nothing so much as a light rain
and with feathers in her mouth, she even looks like nothing so much as some celestial mouser, nest mugger,
eyes two starry flea-wings,
gums of moist cooked cheese.”