The gas grill, black-vinyl cloaked,
Metal legs in heroic stance
Stood guarded in the rain.
The mourning dove blinked through
Drops falling light and constant
Forming puddles in their subtle haste.
Her balanced waddle crossed the yard,
With ever-startled, obsidian eyes
Focused on the grill.
At cloak’s hem she rested
On the threshold of dry.
By Catherine Gruber