The door opened. He tottered out and stopped in shade and sunshine on the hard white ground. Good morning, he said to the air. Good morning, sunshine. He liked the air and sunshine, though neither answered him.
The blue bird came by and said hello. He liked the bird. It was always friendly and noisy.
The man came out, talking to him in his busy language. He liked the man. He mewed that information to the man, who went by him in a scissoring flash of legs.
He decided to follow the man across the dewy wet grass, see what’s what, but the man went back into the house, speaking as he always did, which roughly translated to, I am leaving you, and closed the door, as he always did, leaving him alone, in the grass, staring back.
A bee came by, and another bird (one he didn’t know) stopped on the tree and said hello. He didn’t know the bird, so he didn’t answer. After requesting permission (which he gave with a nod), the bird darted down in the yard to visit the grass, then said good-bye and flew away.
He settled onto the grass. Cold under his belly fur, the grass sent a wet shock up through him. The sun was peeking through trees. It was always shy at first, hiding behind trees, leaves, and clouds. But then it came out and told him, good morning. How are you?
The sunshine stroked his black fur with its warm hand. I am fine, he answered, closing his eyes to nap.
Michael Seidel, writer 