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The other dove traced a linear
            Route from the point of its
                        Origin to the far eave of
The barn, through its open
            Door. At a distance,
                        It was a small, obscure
Projectile, grey crimson in
            The narrow light fallen out
                        Burning of the belly of cloud
Gathered darkly at the skyline.
            John walked wearily back down
                        The incline from the woods,
Kicking a stone and barely
            Lifting his feet and staring
                        Into the dust of the path.
He could hear the soft
            Voices of birds he did not
                        Recognise from the fields,
Like instruments in the wind.
            He began to sing to himself
                        Under his breath, hoarsely
And soundlessly and as if
            Disengaged from his own voice.
                        There was a weak and tired
Smile on his face and as he
            Walked he closed his eyes for
                        Periods and walked blindly.
As he passed through the yard
            The dove was burning in
                        The dark of its pinions.