A TRUE WHISPER SONG BY SAMANTHA MADWAY
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.
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.
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.