The sun goes down with a gunshot's crack

and there's a dove caught in a thorn bush

white feathers are falling

are flying

are drifting

stained with blood

to the dirt

to the mud

white now red

now brown

now black

dirty

filthy

tainted

white now more

pure no more

And the hunter sees it in the thorns

in the brush

and won't risk his skin

The sun rises in the morning

lightens the night

blood-red sunrise

blood-red sky

bloody like the dove in the bush

on the ground

in the dirt

And there it stays, unseen.

Sunset, normal like the day

few notice the absence of white in the world

of light in the world

in the day

cloudy sky

torn cloth

rent shroud

No soft cooing ever sounds.

Sunrise, sunset

red, dark, silent

joyless

peace is gone

all uncertain

not knowing why

not knowing why

why or how the doves are dead

all dead

all gone

And ravens reign.

Sunrise…

A dove flies.