A
Mourning
Dove
In
My
Yard,
Fallen
From
Above,
Wings
Spread,
Quite
Dead.
Over
It
On
The
Walk,
A
Sharp
Shinned
Hawk,
Poised
In
Cold
Winter’s
Need,
Possibly
To
Feed.
I hurried
Out
To
Stop
The
Rending,
Fending
Off
The
Predator
With
A
Rake,
Scooping
Up
Weathered
Feathers,
Curled
Claws
And
Pink
Feet,
And
Put
It
In
The
Dumpster
Across
The
Street,
Frozen
Flight,
Lost
Over
Night.