Hit and Run

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Hit and Run
By Tom Moore

A cat doesn't wonder if the weather's cold.
It puts a paw in snow and thinks, Yes,
that's cold, though you wouldn't really call
it thinking. You'd call it paw in snow and

not worry if it made you conjure up a raw
spring day--say, March--with the willow
buds curled like children in their sleep
or children lost, though they wouldn't

put it just like that. If they spoke at all
they'd talk about the rabbit that had hurled
itself against the fender of a friend's father's
car, and how they heard the thump and

never thought of how a comma stops
things, almost, then the words go on--
and on with the rabbit almost dead by the
roadside, quite at peace with the smells

of spring and their cloying hopefulness.
There is no blood but the cat out hunting
senses fur, licked by the wind's tongue,
and comes to see, and puts its head

against a back for warmth, and thinks
Yes, this is warm, though the rabbit ought
to move, but stays: one of many brown
things that have come to grief at night.