Mourning the Mourning Dove

The cruel sound of feathered flesh striking paned glass.
Did she know it was her final flight?
When she flew hard into the panoramic reflection
          in the large window
          she tumbled to the hard stones beneath the glass,
          flapped her angelic wings once,
          and breathed her last.
I mourn for the mourning dove.
Released from her body,
Her spirit flies home.

Dziadek