Sometimes, the dog thinks she’s a bird. Or the distinction between dog and bird becomes meaningless, so complete is her attention on a cluster of mourning doves in a blackjack oak or the turkey vultures circling overhead. There are vultures wherever there are people, but especially, it seems, here. They catch air currents as we walk circles in a dark wood alongside my parent’s retirement village in the Jersey pines.
High holy pandemic, and the mourning doves sing like gossip. When startled by the dog’s gaping mouth, they rise from the tree all at once. The Internet tells me that doves symbolize hope. That they bring help from those who have gone before us. But I’m not convinced, fresh from a loss that wrecked me. Meanwhile, the vultures remain silent. They dip low with dark eyes peering from blood-red heads, almost close enough for us to feel the air yield to their weight.
Published December 2024
Jenn Hall 