There, by the driveway,

below the bare lilac branches

 

a dove,

perfect in lines and delicate color

contrasting in curvature against

the new snow,

 

dead.

 

It died there sometime in the night

in temperatures that wrapped the

dying dove in its final

repose and held it there

gently- yes, gently:

she has been touched gently

in her final breaths-

every feather is perfect.

 

So perfect that I touch,

hoping that I will cause

a flurry of wings,

but it is not to be..

the dove has waited for

the end, without knowing of

endings..

knowing only, perhaps,

the anticipation,

after a short rest,

of another flight.