The Mourning Dove

It sits there on the rim of a garden
urn, huddling within itself,
small sleek head nestled as though
with the pain of grief, between
the shoulders of its wings. Puffed
with the frigid temperature and
wretched wind, this icy morning
finds the bird alone and unpaired
a mourning dove emulating its
name. Where then is its mate
we wonder. Certainly not one
of the pair beside it daintily and
nonchalantly pecking seed at
the winter avian feeding centre.
Its companions, content with their
lot, heedless of his quiet lament.