artwork: ralph murre
The
Mourning Dove
by
Constance Vogel Adamkiewicz
Exists
on half a ration -- the charity of sparrows'
seed
dropped beneath the feeder
where
she nestles in the grass,
stretching
her wings.
Even
a nudge from the old dog's nose
or
a launching pad of my cupped hands
does
not make her fly, only skim the ground
before
returning to the hollow she created.
Why
has she stayed, these long days,
repeating
her same sad coo,
risking
hunter hawk or cat
when
she could fly away?
What
keeps her from taking
that
one grand liftoff
before
winter's white hand grips her
and
all she can do is look afar
to
the place she might have reached a long time ago
and
her eyes close under the weight of snow?
~
first published in Moon Journal
