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A Dove The capture of sweet joy wrapped in airy mystery as roaring torrents divide creating pockets of freedom beneath white stretched wings that slice into upward spirals of warm air rising from sun baked soil brown heat sinks. Tragic wind shear folding rivers of air into turbulent tumbles of tossing spinning and collapse in lucid streams of timeless pause as violent twists steal my lift drawing me down through branched wooden arms that fail to catch. I rest at last in the stillness of fear and pain. Waiting. I am lifted by tender bent hands shaking with age that cup my cool form and cradle my fear in caressing warmth. The joy of sadness drawn upon her face as she sees the truth in broken wings we share. I know that she knows I will go first. |
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