Several days before I was to die
A white dove flew into my garden.
It had one black spot on its tail,
As if a drop of ink had soiled
Its purity. It looked at me
As birds do: head sideways,
Neck twisted, almost upside down;
Then went the other way, fluttered,
Cooed, straightened, and stared at me
With more than human stillness. Our eyes
Met, and I felt some understanding
Pass between us, as if it sensed
I was to die and felt compassion.
And then I knew that I would live.…
