There is an aching, hollow note
to the Mourning Dove’s repeated calls.
They break my heart as I feel their hurt,
for I found her mate, this morning,
with his breast ripped apart.

There is a hopeless, slow beat
to the monotony, as her eyes constantly seek.
Her mate was a beauty, sleek, almost pretty,
but I found him cold, and stiffening,
with only his breast ripped apart.

There is a madness, a pulse,
in my mind, I can’t get away from the sound.
One tear for each call, from my face to fall,
for I found him with eyes open, and glazing,
one of my cats had ripped his breast apart.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 6/4/04