I once had a dove named Olive. I bought her at a China Town shop from a man with yellowing fingers. She was crammed between two plastic palm trees and a little bowl of green pellets. We brought her home and heard her coos sing a long to the songs we were playing. Every night, she would lay little blue eggs in her cage, and sit on them. One by one, the eggs broke. Olive’s spirits and coos began to seem more desperate, like the mourning of a child. One day, she just stopped cooing altogether. She didn’t want to eat her little green pellets.
So I took Olive outside, for some fresh air. I still remember olive’s copper cage amongst the egyptian papyrus in my backyard. She was beautiful. She began to coo again. But one night i was woken up by howls, howls that can only be heard when the blood of a once a live creature has been spilled. I came outside, and a coyote was running away with olive, wings and all.
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