Part of me knew,
As I held the handle
Of the back door
On that spring morning,
That when I opened it
The cat would prowl
And stalk and pounce
And the little wren
Going about its chores
Would be in grievous danger.
I gave the wren
Too much credit
For watchfulness
And the cat
Too little respect
For a million years
Of instinct.
Later, when the bird—
Eyes darting everywhere,
A small stream of gluey red
Striping its beak—
Pulsed beneath my fingertips
Then went still, I wondered:
Am I here to stand—fragile, invincible—
To stop a tank’s forward progress,
Or to aid devastation on grand and tiny scales
(With well-practised passiveness),
Or just to notice the power we possess
And bear it witness?
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