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A recorded reading of “Thread of Night”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
A cat is a needle of dusk, sleeking the hem of the garden. Her paws are commas in soil, pausing the sentence of beetles. She wears a moon clipped short, one bright stitch at her throat. Windows exhale tea-warm breath; she keeps the streetlight tame. Then—tail up like a violin bow— she draws one long, invisible note— through the dark’s soft cloth, and every moth remembers it has wings. When she sits, the night sits with her— perfectly poured, not spilling a drop.
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