[after the summer day by Mary Oliver] Who made these summer days? Who made these mangoes? Who made the bougainvilleas? Who made my Siberian cat— who is busy stealing my granola bars and tortilla chips? She scratches my thighs and stretches herself across my blanket. I don't know exactly what she wants. I don't know how she feels after eating those churus. I don't know how to groom her coat, yet she plays with me with her long fur, rolls herself onto my arms. Doesn’t it sound wonderful? So tell me— what is stopping you from rolling? What is stopping you from playing? Isn’t it best to stretch yourself upon the grass? Bidya B.