TINY GRAY DOVE
Tiny gray dove
Alone
Shivering
Overtly out of her element
Lost perhaps
Disoriented
From the stiff north wind
Nesting
In the center lane of an asphalt runway
She cowers as I pass
Twitchy
Hoping my eyes
Overlook her precarious plight
I walk gently
As if upon eggshells
Disturbed by such odd placement
Eighteen wheels of death machine
Gears jamming with precision
Rumbling towards destiny
Helpless nausea brews in my gut
Fly small one
Flee this treacherous path
Demise approaches
© Bill Grimes Jr. 2006
