A mosaic of amber, ebony, and cream, the calico moves like liquid autumn through the swaying grass. Late sunlight gilds her fur, turning each step into a ripple of fire and shadow. The shallow depth of field blurs the world beyond herâfencing dissolves into haze, trees melt into watercolorâso that all that remains in sharp relief is the quiver of her whiskers, the flick of her plumy tail, the way the seed heads cling to her fur like tiny trophies.This is the hour when ordinary backyards become wilderness. When housecats remember they are still tigers. When every rustle in the grass could be prey, or wind, or something older calling them home.
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