The Smallest Shadow

The day I started bleeding, the kids found a dove hunkered down,
roosting in the lavender bush.  	Spots of red, more spots,
then a wild rush.                        
 
                           They approached closer and closer,
even reaching out to brush a finger along its mottled feathers.
 
It did not appear hurt.                         	Only hushed, still,
its wings tucked close in,
                                          the crook of its head shaped in a question.
Let it be, I said, and shooed them off.
 
The ultrasound showed the smallest shadow. I walked away
from the physician’s office, the sun shining hard on the garden,
                                          here and there a soft-gray blur in front of my eyes.
           
Soon the bird vanished altogether,      	dusky image
unfixed by nightfall,                	leaves filling in again
as if they’d never been disturbed.