A grey dove, wingtips dipped in red,
hangs from the jaws of my Iris–
a hound as old as she is shocked
at her surprising retrieval.

Look what I’ve managed to bring you–
this small dove with bloody wingtips,
she says with two eyes, one bright; one
clouded by too much excitement,

packed into so many dull years.
See, I’m wagging my tail. See,
this grey dove with a broken wing–
I caught this for you. No need for

concern over the advanced years;
success makes her spry again, makes
her stiff joints loosen with pride. Here:
a small, broken bird. Make it whole.