From the kitchen window
I watched a broken tailed pigeon
hopping uneasily from shade patch to shade patch in my backyard.
The mundanity of irreversible pain.

The dogs stood perplexed at the door
since it wasn't fleeing,
or exhibiting any self-preservation for that matter,
as the others typically did.

He was rather plump,
suggesting some manner of avian royalty,
as the desert doesn’t typically afford strong nutrient sources
for most species.

Water was unnecessary.
But to not provide
even a small dish, seemed
a taciturn snuffing of a long stale flame.

There was no further assistance to offer
beyond keeping the dogs at a wide berth
while I finished wiping down
the peeling linoleum.

When I returned for the dish,
he was entirely gone.
Without so much
as a tuft of flight feather left behind.