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Bleeding Paloma

He sees her in the tree, high up
Hidden among the mango leaves
Her egg-shell coloring peer through
The dark green.  He scatters the 
Seeds upon the earth and waits 
Until she flitters down, at first
Untrusting the paloma walks.
She notices him as she feeds, 
But she does not flee.  He is
A kind child.  A good heart
He convinces her and lulls hers
Near with more in his palms 
Open she moves in sway and
He takes her up as she feeds 
On his seeds.  
He caresses her plums, fingers
Beneath her light wings folded 
Back to her side.  And her
Eyes study him, this natural 
Child, curious face and smiling.
He suddenly takes her in his 
Tight grasp, she struggles to 
Ease out.  He holds her against the 
Bare earth and places a 
Rock on one of her winds
To Keep her there.  He watches her, 
Walks away for a bit and then
Comes back with a new face
Of deceit and mischievous coals 
Kindling unsafe thoughts and 
Indifference to her naïve cooing.  
He bends over her and pulls out a machete.
First he picks at her free wing with it.
And then he brings it over his shoulder and
It swings into to her, that dull
Blade that makes him grin at his
Experiment.  The little boy watches the 
Bird flail to the ending tired agony
And shock and betrayal and she is
Wounded.  Her wing barely attached
Still to its center.  He sets the rock aside and 
Uses his toes to move her around,
To examine the handy work.  A voice
Calls him, and he scanters away;
A new distraction to please him.
The bird weakly flails on the earth, like
Shocks of movement and then silence 
And then horrid shaking.  Feathers litter
The bare earth.
The paloma lies in the reddening dirt.

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