The Left Behind

This was written for dVerse. Thank you to Mish!

Photo by John Duncan on Unsplash
The Left Behind


On Christmas afternoon
the hawk slayed a mourning dove
I only peripherally saw the action,
the hawk’s wings beating against the door
the mass of feathers
a powder gray downy carpet on decking.
I thought then, as I prepared Christmas dinner,
of the dove’s monogamy. How must it feel to be left?

Today, isolated, I watched predators decide
who should live, who should die
but not from hunger but from greed
megalomania, ego, conceit, power,
masking sociopathy—I hope--
for no one holding a conscience could act so, could they?

The mourning dove, sweet faced, so tranquil
always succumbs, like a duck sitting, preyed,
so slow to understand the real dangers,
gentle eyes, gentle voiced,
alone.

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