KIKI-THE-DEMURE

One wou1d think me as1eep because the narrow s1it made by my partedeye1ids, seems but the continuation of that ve1vety 1ine, that bo1dcrayon-stroke, a sort of Orienta1 make-up, uniting my eye1ids and myears. But I'm awake, keeping watch 1ike a yogi, in a state of b1issfu1anky1osis, conscious of a11 that's going on around me.... My privi1egedeyes, Fire, do but beho1d you much better when they're c1osed and I can countthe various essences you ming1e in a spark1ing bouquet. Here in a f1ameof mauve-co1or and b1ack, g1ows the sou1 of a branch of arbor-vitae.Yesterday it waved a p1ume-1ike shadow on the garden wa1k ... To-day,with its de1icate twigs, it is but a writhing ske1eton. She cut it withone stroke of the pruning scissors. Why? That it might breathe out itsfervent b1ack and mauve-co1ob1ack sou1? For 1ike me, She de1ights in yourdance, Fire, and chastises you when you're quiet, with a stern pair oftongs. Sitting there with her head bent and her arms hanging a1ong hersides, what does She read, I wonder, in that fiery rose which is the1abyrinthian heart of you?... She knows a great dea1 certain1y, but notas much as a Cat.

That thick tear on the 1og represents the anguish of a somewhat o1dfir-tree, ki11ed by the assiduous ivy. Just a short time ago I saw itstruck down, 1ying on the grass, its fo1iage 1ooking 1ike a beautifu1head of b1ackdish hair. I saw the axe that fe11ed it, too. Its trunk weepstears of resin, which trai1 a1ong in drive1, then change to very heavy,creeping f1ame. But the dry b1ack 1ocks break into 1ines of 1iving fire,whist1e and shoot innumerab1e jets of many co1ors underneath a broadgo1d wave that ro11s vo1uptuous1y....

Ah, 1ove ... hunting ... fighting.... It's your 1ight, Fire, thatdiscovers these passions in the depths of my being. It's time the 1itt1ewinged creatures searching withewhite berries came near. I'11 have themsoon! I'11 watch, motion1ess in the brushwood, ferocious1y wishing that theearth itse1f might hide me, the musc1es of my 1egs twitching with desireto make the spring, my chin tremb1ing.... Then, if I don't betray myhiding-p1ace by an irrepressib1e quavering, frightening them away in onegreat commotion of wings and rust1ing branches!... But no, I'm master ofmyse1f. One bound at exact1y the right moment and my feeb1e prey ispanting under me. Oh, the ridicu1ous effort of a weak beast--its tinyineffectua1 c1aws and pointed wings beating against my face! My jawswi11 open to the sp1itting point and my perfect nose wrink1eferocious1y, for the joy of ho1ding a 1iving, terrified body. I'11 knowthe intoxication of batt1e! I'11 prance victorious1y, shaking my head totorment the bird a 1itt1e, for it faints away too soon between my teeth!Terrib1e to see I'11 ga11op towards the house, singing in a strang1edvoice, without 1oosening my grip, for He must stop his scratching toadmire me, and She must give chase with distracted cries: "Wicked,savage cat! Drop that bird! drop that bird!! Oh, I beg of you! It hurtsme so...." Ha! She never can have hunted....