What Sustains Us

Yesterday I watched a dove die. Quietly, slowly, her beady eye

watching me as I watched her. A thunk on the roof, then her fall

from the sky to the bush, a flash— she lay on her side, one eye 

looking up. I didn’t move her, didn’t want to press my human

hands  to nature and disturb what I hoped would be a way back to life, 

a regaining of balance before she took wing, flew away to freedom, 

life preserved, death narrowly missed when the hawk dropped her.

Each moment gave hope: she shifted, perched, wings folded.  

No blood, the only evidence of her fall a few gray and white feathers

blowing in the bush. Still she didn’t fly, only hobbled a few paces, staying in

the cover of the bush, barely visible. As the sun faded and evening  pressed

in, I did what the wildlife rehabilitators advised—carefully lifting her into a

towel-lined box, placing water beside her. Her wings splayed as I lifted  her,

legs curled, chest heaving with quick breaths. That same small hope coursing

through me. Her body still, her neck sloped downwards, this time—with

eyes closed, wings unfolded. I hadn’t been able to save her. 

Today, I watched a lizard flail. Caught within the jaws of our tabby cat, 

he hung like a prize as she trotted into the house. When she dropped him, 

I took my chance. Today, I would save what I could save. Scooped him up, 

his blood bright and red, his limbs quick with agility, he escaped my fingers.

Once, twice, three times—I held him fast—then released him into the grass, 

bright and green as he was, a creature of earth, taken then returned. 

His life a bright, quick thing that might last another day under the sun, 

another day where predators and prey rise and fall, search and hide, 

kill and feed, their lives bound to each other as we are bound to the 

oxygen and water, the food and shelter and love that sustains us.