The blinds had not been dropped last night, in the living room. The morning was free to enter in, stripe the room in light.
At the window Maneki Neko sits, sunrise facing, beckoning in, her plastic-cat eyes slinky and unblinking.
Maybe like my camera she sees the distance as a bloom of searing white.
Maybe like me she sees unleafed trees; heavy trunks, intricate twigs; against silvery river mist; clouds painterly pink, fiery orange, over a hill; a midnight green hill; a landscape in monochrome and colour.
Maybe her sight is no more than the work of the solar powered sensor: maybe even that is imaginary, merely fancy.
But I like the way her arm clicks, her purposeful composure.
And in view of this, sat at the table where coffee steams from a regal mug, I grant her perfect vision.