Friday, April 6, 2012

The Rapture, NaPo Poem, April 5th

The Rapture

It takes you by surprise,
the pale, nearly perfect circle
of feathers on the path.
It’s as if a mourning dove
unzipped his drab jacket,
let it drop about his knees
and then stepped aside
leaving it to lay among leaves
and teeny twigs, beside the hoove
impressions punched
into soft ground by deer
in trek to the river.

No blood, no bone—just powder-down
pinwheel-patterned and fluttering
ever so slightly in the small wind
that winds around the basswood.

You know he was the victim of a hawk.
Still, you can’t help but pause
and puzzle over this miniature tragedy—
the perfect act of a mighty, winged god
swooping down in the end of days
to retrieve one recalcitrate soul.


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