A black and white cat rests splayed atop the dusty pavement,
The occasional breeze ruffling his otherwise already disheveled fur.
His mind is on the shaking in the bushes that eavesdropping has brought to his senses:
It may be dinner beckoning or just the naughty wind.
But now he's too contented to move a muscle and too busy being a cat
To fret over a lost rat. So he returns to sleeping,
Fretting over nothing, too busy being a cat.
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