Query

For RM

My cat ate a wren this morning, one of a pair.
He seemed just to take it from the air.
Now her mate is cleaning out their nest,
From some sense that starting over's best,
Or from grief, or rage.
Is he bitter,
There among her fine, disordered litter?
I hear a puzzled query in his song,
About where she's gone, and for how long.
One By One

The afternoons go by, one by one.
My old friend, who shone like a tropic sun
Amid the poets of our day, too soon
Grown wan and thin as the late May moon,
His low, scouring, gritty laughter gone—
Does he hear it flicker up as night comes on?
Morning, Taos

The desert pigeons dance on the grass,
And in the time it takes one cloud to pass
Beneath the dry, immaculate blue,
Nothing thinks of me or you.