In the soft afterglow filter of a
day in June,
The trees apply the sun’s soft
blush to the clouds
That hover in the pale indigo
streaks of the sky.
The birds in the trees sing the day
to sleep
From their rooftop gardens in the
oaks and maples--
Except the mourning dove.
This feathered piece of drift wood
sits
Alone on a telephone wire,
shoulders sloped
In his blissful solitude.
He sighs soft and low, like an old
man
Who has the familiarity of how hard
one day can be.
His neck puffs outward and again he
coos his lament--
He can’t find the words to say how
he feels.
The sun sits like a fiery
thumbprint on the horizon
And begins to sink, its rays waving
Like the arms of a drowning man.
The mourning dove throws himself
from his perch,
Leaving nothing behind but the
whistle of fluttering wings
In the rapidly cooling air.
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