Cyclones turning off the shore, seabird-squawking skies I tour with eyes and ears fixed above hoping somewhere flies a dove. At my feet I feel a peck and find there the beak and neck of a pale-white prodding swan searching for the socks I don. Stepping hastily away, I start stumbling down the bay, wailing as would one pursued by one intent on something lewd. Rapier-like, the swan extends Its head to mine, sends Itself in frightening flight; I cease to flee and cannot fight. What until now I had not seen comes from nowhere and in between the swan and me: a dove glides by and takes the blow, I see it die. The swan, bloodlust sufficed, goes fulfilled – the other sliced. Now I may look above knowing somewhere flies a dove.
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