There has been rain, yet it is still stuffy. The residual heat has not yet released from the warm earth. All the windows are either open or on the latch; my cat likes to sit by the open window sniffing the air, guarding her territory or scouting for prey. Last night, while we were watching Kon-tiki, she leapt through the living room window pursuing a moth. She kept capturing it in her paw and then losing it, and then she lost it for good behind the TV and I have no idea now whether it hid for a while before making its escape or gave up its tenuous little life back there amongst the wires. Whichever, it is gone. It is so strange seeing my cat with violence in her eyes, the excitement of it, the swiftness of her movements both precise and spontaneous like a well-trained dancer. Sometimes she gets that look in her eyes as she looks down on me, her feet planted firmly on my chest, when she sometimes visits us in the night, and I wonder what she is thinking, how she perceives this strange moment of mastery, whether she is considering a pounce, a nip at my nose. But she always does the same thing which is to sink awkwardly down and curl into a little curve, bend her head and suckle on her own chest. My violent little kitten.