Scratching at a 5 a.m. French door

when all the cats are bedded down

secured behind dead bolted panels

a whispery sound continuing as if a hand

rising from a prone body stretches upward

in one last attempt to draw attention

but when I go to peer outside where old stone

steps still rise toward this double door that never opens

(having been sealed against the wet for years)

there’s nothing in the yellow glow of bug lights

gleaming from around the barn, no length of

bones draped in old denim, nor rubbing deer

are here and yet in late afternoon westering sun

a new kitten sleeps curled atop the sandbags

under the watchful eyes of the three barn cats

as she lifts her head before sleeping again

to telegraph that It’s okay, I belong

her nose a large black thumbprint above

her curled white paws, her tail switching once

another Pyewacket, hers the hand/claw kneading

the screen in the morning doubtless tossed

from a car speeding past on the highway

trusting in a sleeping farmhouse that

there’s room for one more, here to stay.