The Tribe

by Rachel Levine

A cat slinks along the ground in the bushes near the ball park, its belly milimeters off the earth as it moves forward with the precision of a machine. The focus of a cat is absolute. Every muscle carries its intent, every fibre of its being pointed gracefully towards a specific end. I watch it stalk down a smaller creature, while my dog pisses on a tree and misses. My dog and I come from a different tribe. We consider ourselves the protagonists of our own buddy flick, though he is always the Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote. We stand ankle deep in the summer clover, focused on our respective temporary sensory enticements. I watch the morning light beam through a stained glass window formed by overlapping green leaves, while he munches a found bone. My mind unpacks a series of considerations about the nature of existence and morality, about inaccuracy in the struggle towards the ideal. Bored, he stretches out in the grass, waiting for me to cease my admiration for universal mystery and wonder.

©Rachel Levine 2006