the mourning dove

the mourning dove sits outside my window sill.

she arrives every day at the break of dawn and sings a tale, mourning song.

the glass separates us from ever meeting and it is the boundary needed to keep her singing.

some days I wake to want to bare my fangs and silence her, it's not strength but vicious weakness which hungers her demise.

some days I rise to hear her purpose clear, she arrives to remind me that mourning is always here.