On the stone path
to my cabin door
I find Flickers slammed
against windows
in last night’s storm,
feathers glittering
with drifted snow
Some summer mornings
the corpses of Cardinals
pierced by cats
lay under feeders,
feathers scattered
in the slow shifting
of the early sun
If there is purpose inside a storm
or reason for killing by cat,
a force outside the circle
of our knowing
must be what sends us
back into the cold
to hunt it down