By Interpretive Errors of Source I Harm Reality

stressful eructative squeaks of fear
emit from the bird’s throat
as it erupts in sudden panicked flight
such a nervous little thing
I thought
the mourning dove was
but was wrong
all those generations of them
broods by the hundreds
all sorrowfully misjudged
by the whistling sonation
of wind through wing
a trill of the quill
a piccolo fluting of feathers
an accident of action
no more significant in intent
than the splutter and sizzle
of chicken fat dripped on hot coals


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