With all these weeks of rain, the grass is
lushly green, well over a foot high,
still wet, smelling absolutely marvelous.
I am on a hunt, a small harvest of sorts,
for the most succulent of viridescent,
tender blades of grass.

Oh, not for me you see, but for my big lazy
rotund, inside only cat, as his diet is bland
canned, or dry foods only, he turns up his
feline nose at chicken, or bits of beef from
the table, and so once a week I faithfully
venture out to collect a big handful of
chlorophyll rich lawn grass that he dearly
loves, with big eyes of intense expectation,
he watches my every move from his perch
upon the windowsill of my living room,
knowing as he does exactly what I'm doing.

When I return inside with his prize in hand he
excitedly reaches up his front paws and dances
about, vocally meowing for his anticipated fresh
salad, which he always devours right down to
the very last grass green blade. Oh, for such
a simple cat existence and pleasures.

How I wish I could get even half that excited
about anything, anymore. But those days are
long past. Well on second thought, maybe at
this point just waking up every morning, is
good enough.