She lay nestled in the grass
Feathers ruffling lightly in the chill breeze
Her head down, wings tucked in
Her beauty apparent in
Soft greys, browns, a ring of black
Round her neck
Dead, or dying?
The image would not leave me
I returned short hours later
To find the dove, to take her home
And I mourned her passing
Alone, with no warm place to die
Leaves of Ash 