White Doves in Mourning
I longer hear the doves,
their soft mournful call
no longer echoes from
the second growth
that leads towards the Sound.
There were never doves.
The calls I heard as doves
where no doves live or nest
were most likely common pigeons
stray cats or owls,
schoolchildren bullying smaller children,
traffic noise and garbage trucks,
rabbits in fear they will be discovered
by squirrels hiding in the second growth.
Crows.
There were no doves,
only crows returned
from northern climates
in time for starling nesting,
dandelions and spring plums.
There are no crows.
There are only explosions,
another in the sand,
another even Lorca
would be at loss to understand.
Such doves as there are mourn
as I watch crows chase
night birds across a pewter sky
and pigeon wings litter city streets.
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Poets for Peace.... ˇPoemas sí, balas no!
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