Wild Cats
Rain gathers under the eaves, makes a sound
like bullets hitting the bags of leaves we raked
under bluer skies. Birds flock around the feeder,
not knowing they look like winos in the rain,
turning their tiny heads every now and again
to look over shoulders they don't have,
for enemies who do what cats do.
Beside the air conditioner unit, under leaves
that escaped the rake, lies one bird,
a solitary cardinal that didn't escape the cat.
Paw prints mark the mud of condenser runoff
that mixes with new spring rain. The bones
show no signs of a struggle. The head is bent
sideways and down, as if still preening.
The cats are inside for the rain, under an overhang
or behind a half-rotted porch support. Eyes
like lantern flames trapped in oily glass
stare out and wait for the sun to dry their
backyard savannah. Only the sky's tears mourn
the cardinal, unburied and wasting, useless
as regret, fertile as freshly dug graves.