我是一只小花猫，
尾尖缠着午后的微光，
喵喵，懒洋洋，嘻哈如风，
在寂静的屋檐下盘旋。
直到——
一只小鸟，翩落窗台的边缘。
我敛息，
如时针在午夜的停摆，
心底却燃起微妙的刺痒——
不是挠耳的轻扰，
而是骨缝间，
一缕名为“渴望”的暗流。
它站在光里，
羽翼收敛，却藏着云的呼吸。
啄虫时，喙如点墨，
却耳听八方，
眼眸半阖，
像一尊凝固在晨雾中的哨兵。
它不只是静，
它是用静织网，
以无形捕获每一丝颤动。
我伏低，
爪尖隐入瓦缝的阴影，
呼吸与尘埃同沉。
我在心底勾勒那一瞬——
它振翅，我扑击，
羽落如雪，我按住它跳动的脉搏，
它的惊惶，
是我片刻的荣光。
多美，那是我未触的辽阔，
那是我心底翻涌的狂歌。
我无法飞，
只能算计：
风的弧度，
它侧头的频率，
我跃起的刹那。
我以为，
我已握住时间的裂缝。
然后，我跃——
如一念划破虚空，
扑向我编织的幻梦。
可它，
早于我，
听见了空气的低语。
像解开命运的隐秘方程，
它轻轻振翅，
携走我未及吐露的叹息，
融入深蓝的天光，无迹。
我跌回窗台，
尾巴绕回沉默的躯壳，
那刺痒已散，
只余风的低吟：
“你的快，困于你熟悉的疆域；
它的慢，是自由的永恒低语。”
从那天起，
我不再追逐飞鸟。
我学会倾听——
听瓦缝间光影的细语，
听风掠窗的空茫，
听自由擦肩时，
那瞬息的空白。
那一瞬，
我也曾触及云端，
虽败，
却在坠落中，
窥见了飞翔的形状，
也懂得了自己的影子。
I am a little tabby cat,
My tail entwines the afternoon’s faint glow,
Mewing, languid, a playful whirl of breeze,
Spinning through the hush of eaves.
Until—
A bird alights, delicate, on the sill’s edge.
I still my breath,
A second hand forgotten by the clock’s sway,
Yet within, a subtle itch ignites—
Not the fleeting urge to scratch an ear,
But a tremor in my bones,
A longing named desire.
It perches in the light,
Wings folded, yet breathing clouds.
Its beak, pecking insects, dots the air like ink,
Yet its ears catch every whisper of the world.
Eyes half-closed,
It stands, a sentinel carved in morning mist.
It is not merely still—
It weaves a net of quiet,
Catching each quiver with invisible threads.
I crouch low,
Claws slipping into the shadows of tile cracks,
My breath sinking with the dust.
In my mind, I trace that moment—
It soars, I pounce,
Feathers fall like snow, I pin its pulsing heart,
Its panic,
My fleeting crown of glory.
How beautiful, this vastness I cannot touch,
This wild song surging in my chest.
I cannot fly,
Only scheme:
The curve of the wind,
The rhythm of its tilted head,
The instant of my leap.
I thought
I held the fracture of time in my grasp.
Then, I spring—
A thought slicing through the void,
Lunging for my woven dream.
But it,
Swifter than I,
Hears the air’s faint murmur.
Like solving the hidden equation of fate,
It flicks its wings,
Carrying my unvoiced sigh,
Melting into the deep blue light, traceless.
I slump back to the sill,
My tail curling round a silent frame,
The itch dissolved,
Only the wind’s murmur remains:
“Your speed is bound by your familiar realm;
Its stillness is freedom’s eternal whisper.”
From that day,
I chase no more winged shadows.
I learn to listen—
To the murmurs of light in tile seams,
To the vastness of wind brushing the pane,
To the fleeting blankness when freedom passes by.
In that instant,
I too touched the clouds,
Though I fell,
In falling,
I glimpsed the shape of flight,
And learned the weight of my own shadow.
（作者 汪翔（美国）， 版权所有。转载请著名作者和出处。 2025年5月14号）