April is gone again. My eyes look up
into a bath of onyx sky. Soft undersides
of white-tipped
doves shining pale like fish in
water. Gold-washed silver, thirty or
more in skies of night. They flock, they glow translucent as the
city vapor lights.

silence

They leave behind the space they once
absorbed—like prayers and
promises and love's exchange; they
flush into an arch of sky, driven
as we are,
by life inside the life

above a monotone of fence
and gravel road.


Mia Moore