A black cat sits upon the sill basking in the sun,

She lays and purrs, 

her old bones content, 

she is not ready for summer to be done.

But the seasons do not wait.

The days go marching on,

Summers air starts to chill.

The days are not as long,

Fall peaks around the corner, 

Before strolling into view. But fall is the shyest of the seasons,

 always tiptoeing her way through.

She takes her time spreading her tresses full of color,

The black cat watches her mildly,

 never bothered by her speed.

The sun is warm, the air heavy.

She yawns and laments the turning year,

 and curls up in the last patch of sun.

She’s not ready for summer to be done.