September 1, 2024

It's the kind of meeting

Only humans can create:

The hawk on the fence,

The dove at the window,

One's lost her will to hunt,

The other consumed by capacity to love.

She stares blankly at the void

Where once her home stood,

Now cleared for a house

By people miles from the devastation.

Chipmunks have nothing to fear

From the predator depressed

Or the observer unnerved

As he fears letting his dog out.

It's a long Labor-Day weekend,

So few experts can help the dove.

The few who do respond reiterate

"Red-Tailed Hawks are a hearty bunch."

Besides unless they're injured,

They really can't do much.

I guess like humans mental illness

Is not an injury in a hawk.

After 20 some hours, you fly away

From the fence you straddled.

Perhaps you had made your peace?

Perhaps your stomach rattled?

The dove thought he could sigh in relief,

Had already decided to call you Henri,

Exotic, even if you're not endangered.

Unsure if you were male or female,

The name wouldn't offend your gender,

Although our amateur, virtual research

Suggested you were an immature female.

The dove watched the sky,

The few remaining platforms of trees

To see if maybe you started a new home,

'Cause that's how doves dream.

But, you returned, choosing brush

Instead of the fence.

You looked at me, seemed relatively alert,

Perhaps you were on a fresh start,

But another interminable period

Came when you wouldn't move,

Concerned, your homing doves

Left you water and seeds just in case.

But night came to day,

Water and seeds never disturbed,

I watched your head droop

Beneath your beautiful wings

And I feared the end had come.

The dove hates when anything dies,

Especially when separated from its flock.

Trust me, when a dove cries

It can be for a hawk.