next to you before the storm

I sit on my back porch in the almost dark – the permadusk of evening – watching a cat run curiously, ferociously, through the yard. It – the he or she doesn’t seem to matter – chases a squirrel up a tree. The nails barking and scratching loudly as they climb. And it’s impossible to discern which sounds belong to whom. If it’s the clutching fury of the flight or the crushing advances of the chase or some mixed up combination of both that sounds too much like fear and not enough like answers.