Roofcat surveys all He has no concept of Owning --owns nothing Except water in the Creek, the shrieking Things he eats and Catches sunset where Last it lays on the Roofspine-- asks for Nothing of mine from His high peak so, though A friend, seldom speaks.
Over the southwest Field, where new grass Strives with old and Yellow light lines Earth, the blue Hour lowers. Air is still cold, but Soon, birth below Will lift flowers And trees must sprout Their lace of leaves Across the summer moon.