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Dove
Lesli L’Angelle

The sun lights up
the dining room window:

Limned on the grimy glass,
a ghost dove.

The tip of one stretched wing
points up, tip of the other

down. Between the two,
the belly, then the half-circle

tail. Fleeing the hawk,
it banked into the window

then flew off into dear life.

—
Lesli L’Angelle is retired after a thirty-two-year career with the California community college system. She currently lives in the foothills of Arizona’s Hualapai Mountains, and she can frequently be found at the local yoga studio. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Glimpse, Creosote, Cloudbank, and elsewhere.

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Have you read these poems:
Doe Hill, Late August, After a Storm by Robert Brickhouse
My Mother Was by Fred Carroll

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