The barn cat is out all night, prowling and hunting and killing. She dances on the hay bales, in the moonlight, chases mice and moles in the meadows, stares in wonder at the bats, bobbing and weaving overhead. She walks between the sheep, under the legs of the donkeys, hides in the garden, and then, in the morning, she makes her way to the farmhouse, to her spot by the window, and she meditates, she gathers herself within, lets the sun warm and caress her. She rests in a deep and peaceful way.

She inspires me, inside and out of the house, her life in the barns, in the fields, in the gardens, a life of destiny, independence, killing. Inside, she worships at the temple of life, of the sun.