The waters recede as sun slants
through the receding fog
baring slough-clogged sediment
and shards crumbed from banks of bones
of creatures akin to those that mob the plank
in their stampede to escape the dank hold.
They are the lucky ones.
Wrested from the rabble by happenstance
they descend as they embarked
struggling to stay in pairs
as they nuzzle the sullen, sodden stumps
and grub through the dried-out gullies
looking to fend for themselves
while back on deck the man and his wife
scan the tenebrous horizon and wonder:
Where has our sweet white dove flown?