Doves

The only sound that day was chickens
Determined clucking sticking to the hillside
Oh, the wind that day, too
Finding spaces between branches  to whistle
It all died down, the whistles, the clucks,
When your corpse slid onto the screen
Dead and somewhat purple
Cheeks caved in as an old chapel
Dedicated to saints we don't pray to anymore
Maybe Julian the Hospitaler
Patron of pilgrims and childless people.
Or Peregrine, probably,
Who prayed his cancer away.
The chickens, the wind,
They know when you need a moment.
And then that dove, on the summit,
Circling my head like a mirage.

I dreamed I was on my pilgrimage.
I left early in the evening
From a Spanish albergue
And there were chickens in my way.
I picked one up and wrapped her in my arms
Her body more fragile than expected
Her trust much easier to earn than I deserved.
I whistled as I walked to the beat of clucking
And I did not think, "I'm glad I am not dead."