This was written for dVerse. Thank you to Mish!
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.