Читать книгу Second Bloom - Anya Krugovoy Silver - Страница 18

Today, I saw a hawk clutching

a mourning dove in its talons.

The ground was a white mess

of clawed feathers—a struggle.

And yesterday, Nathalie died.

Every death, a slap that knocks

me backwards. Me, us.

I lose myself in the others.

We hope, we trust; death’s

barbed nail on our nape

still surprises us.