They slip away, those creatures who once caught my eye and ventured near, near enough to smell of snow as cold lingered in their fur and breath warmed my sleeping ear; who ate an apple from my hand and lounged in sunlight, unconstrained. Such old affections slip away, all but one, la douce dolor: she leaned above me as I lay stretched out on the kitchen floor, caught within her net of hair; then quickened by a passing mood, she softly asked, Does that feel good? She lingered in my consciousness when I awoke, a bit confused to find her gone, the place a mess, and emptiness come home to roost. I wonder if she’d be amused to see me settled down, and if she still pursues that wayward life.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence