Our "Madleen" had a passion for cats.

Those who knew her well can attest to the fact that she was passionate about two kinds of cats; 
specifically, cats with fur, and of course, Artic Cats.

This poem is about the latter.



Off Past Canaan

The clock chimed high from the southern wall,
signaling the end of the dinner call.

The television is off,  the suit is found,
the wood stove is stuffed so it won't go out.

Skipping the lock and shutting the door, 
with shuffling feet to the porch floor.

A pull of its tail and the cat's awake,
with a throaty growl it begins to shake.

Purring down the steps and round the back, 
a dim red light casts its sunken track.

Clawing its way up the drifted knee-deep hill,
the Cheetah responding loudly to the Arctic chill.

Atop the knoll a large circle is swept,
to admire a hard-won path and farm that was kept.

Towards the edge of the field, before the maple tree line,
a second headlight starts to shine.

The lines converge then slow for a while,
two riders move-on in single file.

Now be prepared, to say goodbye,
because off past Canaan they fly.