Death Does Not Come Softly

A raven slices through the sky

With a warrior's mighty wings.

He is electric with power and blessed with grace.

His strength is applauded by kings.

A dove's delicate feathers beat against stone

With feathers tattered and torn.

Her beak an exclamation mark

Open - and cooing - as if to mourn.

The dove's head tilts to watch

Counting the beats of the raven's wings.

The warrior's head ducks and curves

Its beak an arrow, its claws are slings.

Fingers scoop up the lace-winged bird,

Removing it from harm's way.

"Poor dove you are hurt," said a singsong voice.

I'll see you live for another day.

The raven erupts with a caustic caw,

It has been cheated of its prize.

The dove coos, so soft and sweet

As it slowly closes its eyes.