shovelling a hole he was
next to the grave of canine Rojo
from my window calling i
“what are you doing?!”
preparing to bury a dead bird
he says, walks to my window and shows me
in his careful hands
a dead Dove it was dead
burial complete he takes his leave muttering
“bad omen”
bad for whom he did not postulate
nor i
i/we wood shudder
enough
at the symbol.