there are two diagonal slashes
in the gauze of screen covering
the sliding glass patio door
each, this very moment
points to a dove

a pair that hid in the oak
this morning while they made
their song, dulcet tones to most
though not to me

I don't recall how the screen
was cut, but now the birds have moved on
and the gashes point only to a bed
of leaves, I will probably not rake
tomorrow

today, I will draw
the curtains and, as darkness gathers,
leave lights off

that may keep me from seeing
my son's flag draped casket lowered
into the ground, without the sound
of even those mourning doves

I am glad your mother departed
before you, for she would have screamed
in today's silence, and would never
have let me close the curtains

she would have implored me
to repair the screen, especially if she happened to see
the scars pointing to two sad songbirds,
even for a brief moment in the sun