Pure Cat In this house of half-read books and half-written letters, only the cat moves with full grace. She glides through a doorway, leaps in one motion to a table and with perfect attention watches the birds outside. Deliberate without deliberation. Her neat white paws step over piles of unattended papers, ignoring them with pure poise. She stretches, spreading her toes; yawns her sharp teeth into view. Sprawled on her back, without a glance at unfinished tasks, she sleeps with wild abandon, four white paws tipped in the air, and I watch the slow rise and fall of her white chest and belly. Her green eyes opened, she sees no words or symbols. She's fierce when chasing a string I drag for her -- too fierce to ask why it moves. Curled on the couch, she sleeps again, entirely. Paws and tail tucked in, she sleeps, assured of her rightness for this world.