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.