There are somewhere around forty cats in the backyard: the landlord stopped counting around there, my housemate told me. They’re polite, but have intentions I have not yet figured out, and they clearly prefer it that way.
If I stand at the edge of the window and peer outside, mostly they either don’t see me or deem me insignificant enough to ignore, carrying on with their discussions, kittens of all colors and stripes weaving in and out under the trees. But if I open the door to the balcony stairs, the conference ends immediately, and forty (or somewhere around) pairs of eyes swivel around to me: not angry nor frightened; slightly exasperated, maybe, annoyed at the brief interruption.