They say that cats as cats their keepers view,
grotesque and weirdly large, but even so
as cats.
Is this the very hubris that
drives men to see in their creator their
own image,
see their own grim vision in
the fair creations of the blind? Proud owl
cries out "who?" from executive perch, as
if disturbed by his own warped reflection,
and hopes for silence only in reply.
Goodly wood-pigeon sighs it to herself
softly, balancing on the washing-line
'til the dimpsey hours, as if she were hoarse
from asking over and over again:
"Who, who, who? Who? Who? Who is up there? Who?"