A mourning dove dead in the grass,

its tawny wings clasped rigid, prayer-like

and I realize with surprise the sadness I feel.

Its' once darting, discerning eyes

swarmed by ants, eyes now shriveled and

as sightless as gauzy windows no longer

capable of seeing the world. I've heard

doves mate for life. Perhaps that's where the

greater part of this sadness lies. I wonder -

am I to be this dove, or is it to be my wife,

the first to die and leave a mourning mate?

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