Mourning doves Poem by soren Barrett

In the winter pampero's chilling breath,
autumns death rattle resounds over the bare Argentine plains.
Two mourning doves,
huddle on a flat rock,
borrowing the departing sun's, meager heat,
from the cooling stone.
They sway and bob to the winds weeping dirge,
tenderly preening their partner's plumes,
softly stroking,
lightly lifting,
fluffing and fitting
each cream and ashen feather.
Following each gust's, ghostly,
rippling disarrangement,
with untiring perseverance,
they soothingly realign each quill,
smoothing and gently calming
the wavelets of a feathery pool.
They coo, cuddle and caress,
with beaks that touch flittingly,
a teasing recognition
of a lifelong, companionship of intimacy.
With pincer bills,
gently from each others eyes,
they brush the day's dusty debris.
Against the frigid, liquid wind,
contrary to its mates timid, protesting, advise,
in a selfless sacrifice,
from the frigid, icy sting,
one lifts a sheltering, angel's wing,
to shield its companion with a down comforter.
They shiver, pressing ever closer,
that they might hold on a little longer,
sharing warmth, and company,
before the numbing cold of night.
Side by side, tail to head, they hide their fright.
As an Ouroboros, they watch,
that nothing may unwittingly approach.
Although harbingers of peace, they're wary,
for it's often the messenger they bury.
A pair bonded by time and nature's collegiality
lean on each other's amity,
loyal till the end of viability.
Suddenly,
a soul withering cry,
feathers fly,
some to sky,
others to ground.
A lone, mourning, dove
flutters heaven bound.