Inside out

You and me cat. We are the same. 

You sit on the rooftop. I sit on the balcony. 

The July night air is soft and silky.

We both watch the tiny Filipina girl.  She comes out of her yellow trailer house into the night. She slips on her little shoes and pads over to her garden to check on the seeds she planted this morning. Then she stands leaning against her house looking up the road. Is she waiting for someone? Her husband is tall and blonde and drives a beat up Subaru. Is she homesick? Maybe she misses the rain. Sometimes there is a group of tiny Filipina women who sit on her front steps, giggling and chattering. 

She gives up and goes inside. Maybe she got her dose of the California night with its symphony of crickets and faraway dogs. 

The smog is hanging low beneath the San Bernardino mountains tonight. The city lights stain it pink. 

You and me cat. We are the same.