I know a little language of my cat, though Dante says br that animals have no need of speech and Nature br abhors the superfluous. My cat is fluent. He br converses when he wants with me. To speak br br is natural. And whales and wolves I’ve heard br in choral soundings of the sea and air br know harmony and have an eloquence that stirs br my mind and heart—they touch the soul. Here br br Dante’s religion that would set Man apart br damns the effluence of our life from us br to build therein its powerhouse. br br It’s in his animal communication Man is br true, immediate, and br in immediacy, Man is all animal. br br His senses quicken in the thick of the symphony, br old circuits of animal rapture and alarm, br attentions and arousals in which an identity rearrives. br He hears br particular voices among br the concert, the slightest br rustle in the undertones, br rehearsing a nervous aptitude br yet to prove his. He sees the flick br of significant red within the rushing mass br of ruddy wilderness and catches the glow br of a green shirt br to delite him in a glowing field of green br —it speaks to him— br and in the arc of the spectrum color br speaks to color. br The rainbow articulates br a promise he remembers br he but imitates br in noises that he makes, br this speech in every sense br the world surrounding him. br He picks up on the fugitive tang of mace br amidst the savory mass, br and taste in evolution is an everlasting key. br There is a pun of scents in what makes sense. br br Myrrh it may have been, br the odor of the announcement that filld the house. br br He wakes from deepest sleep br upon a distant signal and waits br as if crouching, springs to life.