Mourning Dove

  22-04-03   Mourning Dove 4-11-22

The windmill picked  

Up speed.  No one knew

What this wind held.

I raised my hand,

Standing there

While I could.

So much had blown away.

In that night with

Windows trembling,

Gusts shoved my curtains

Aside.  I stood as long

As I could and heard

While leaves rushed

And time faded

The doleful tolling, 

Counting the species

Routed by fire,

Ash and biting

Wind.  The witness 

On my back fence

In the morning, mourned.