Sunlight and a Towel
You spread a towel and paused your folding hands for a moment. On the warm spot, I moved only the tip of my tail. When your hands moved again, the smell of the towel rode the sunlight to my nose. I stay right where I am.
You spread a towel and paused your folding hands for a moment. On the warm spot, I moved only the tip of my tail. When your hands moved again, the smell of the towel rode the sunlight to my nose. I stay right where I am.
Smelling a towel dried in the sun, I remember the warmth of the pillow's edge on waking from a nap. I was sitting in that spot only a moment ago, and now I wait by the door.
The hands folding the towel turned toward the door. I scratched my ear with a hind paw and rose from the spot that had been warm.
Taking in a quilt dried in the sun, the warmth still held inside once brushed my face. Even when I turned my head, the memory of lingering long in a place already vanished stayed with me.
I used to linger a long while in the spot where the warmth of the quilt had gone. The smell of sun left there is still in my nose.
When I pause while folding a quilt that has soaked up the sun, the sparrow on the window frame flies off. In the yard the dry laundry stirs once in the wind, and in the shaded room only the sound of water remains.