A Dead Dove at Swanwick Station It seemed frozen in flight as if negotiating a soft landing or a tight right hand turn and tried to fling it's wings out wide to interrupt a sudden stall, it's landing gear unworkable, or an abrupt and unseen source of fleeting fear. It was perfect and unmarked, crouching, head between it's knees. A few white feathers charted the spot it lay beneath the trees. It's hooded eyes and ungainly posture pointed to something wrong; it's life forced out, profanely emptied of any sound or song.
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