In the morning, on Tuesdays and Thursdays,

the barn cats meet with their Barn Goddess,

their fellow spirit in mayhem and mischief,

and the art of living on a farm.

And here is their agenda:

They talk of chipmunks and moles,

of rabbits spared,

of foxes and coyotes and mangy dogs avoided,

of the best  — sssssh! – secret spots to soak up the sun,

and the nesting and feeding habits of mice

and rats.

And the barn cats tell of their

midnight dances in the rafters when the moonbeams pour in,

and how they hypnotize the bats and barn swallows,

with their golden eyes,

and fly through the air after

the spiders and flies, and tip-toe across

the tops of the haystacks,

scaring the mice half to death,

before they really die.

On Tuesdays the Barn Goddess asks the barn cats

if they really need to kill things to survive, and the

barn cats swish their tails,

and dance and twirl and hiss and flirt,

and their eyes twinkle, and they say, oh yes, oh yes.

That is our nature, our joy,

the songs of our lives.