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Soft Feathers

By John I. Blair

Soft feathers,
Plump breast,
Graceful neck,
Resting on her back
As if presented
For a feast,

The dove is dead.
How this passed
Iíll never know
But guess from lack
Of muss upon the deck
It wasnít cat or hawk.

My heartís belief:
The least of these
Deserve respect.
I lift her up,
Make procession
Through the yard

And bury her
Beneath old leaves
Beside the shed,
Nothing there
To mark the spot,
And that is best.

©2008 John I. Blair


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