Just before dawn, the speaker stands in a hushed yard, listening. Crickets, a thin crescent moon, thistles so dark they blur into their own shadows: everything looks and sounds half-asleep. Then a sound breaks in from under the porch, a repeated, questioning cry that the poem spells out as "Ow? Ow? Ow?" The speaker recognizes it as a feral cat in heat.
What makes the poem work is the tenderness in how it listens. The cry is called "pure supplication / addressed to no one / in particular," and the words "poor feral cat" suggest sympathy rather than annoyance. The cat's calling becomes a kind of counting, as if she is testing every possible way the long, suspended moment might be lit up or answered.
The mood is quiet, patient, and a little aching. The speaker seems to recognize something larger in the cat's longing, a restless wish for something to arrive before the day does.