Cesare Pavese

Dawn on the black hill, and up on the roof cats drowsing. Last night, there was a boy who fell off this roof, breaking his back. The wind riffles the cool leaves of the trees. The red clouds above are warm and move slowly. A stray dog appears in the alley below, sniffing the boy on the cobblestones, and a raw wail rises up among chimneys: someone’s unhappy. The crickets were singing all night, and the stars were blown out by the wind. In dawn’s glow, even the eyes of the cats in love were extinguished, the cats the boy watched. The female is crying, no toms are around and nothing can soothe her: not the tops of the trees, not the red clouds. She cries to the wide sky, as if it were still night. The boy was spying on cats making love. The stray dog sniffs the boy’s body and growls; he got here at dawn, fleeing the glow that crept down the far hill. Swimming the river that drenched him as dew drenches fields, he was finally caught by the light. The bitches were still howling. The river runs smoothly, skimmed by birds that drop from red clouds, elated to find their river deserted.