Is it odd to say I thought of you
as I pulled a dead dove from
the swimming pool? Spine up
to God, floating lightly with
its bright beak face down.
Streams of red outlined
the strange sight. I gently scooped
him up, ignorant of sex, his eyes
closed so gently as if in prayer.
His only mate’s claws licked the fence,
like little tongues, as she watched on.
Wings magnificently stiff and his feet
frayed wide in la petite mort. You came
to mind. His neck was limp
as a cypress flower.
I had to look away
when his head snapped backward
while I laid him in spring grass.
Part of The Learned Pig’s Clean Unclean editorial season, March-May 2015.
Image credit: J Labrador