A TRUE WHISPER SONG BY SAMANTHA MADWAY

spring 

is summer 

is eggshells in the grass,

fledglings prophesying future flights;

is small dugouts made to be missed, lined with 

forget-me-nots of fur; is hoping to live to eventually,

opening eyes and finding forelimbs, lucky feet quick to flee.

summer

is summer

is a smashed egg 

on the sidewalk, yoke

spreading like an oil spill, like

humors from a cracked-open corpse; 

is the silhouette of something that didn't get

to die; is the swelter and saunter of approaching storms.

day 

is night 

is morning after,

nest marks the spot; is 

an empty nursery pitched from

a tree, converting from crime scene

to act of grief; is throwing gauntlets at graves; 

is learning where mourning doves got their name. 

February 8, 2021