Day 29, Rondel: The Mourning Dove. And, Strangely, Baseball

Day 29, Rondel: The Mourning Dove. And, Strangely, Baseball

For years, I heard your plaintive call

and mistook you for an owl.

That’s like mistaking dance for prowl

or buds of spring for dying fall.

I shivered at the dreaded pall

your voice cast, the blood-curdling yowl.

For years, I heard your plaintive call

and mistook you for an owl.

Sometimes our gaze locks on a ball,

we swear it’s fair, but it’s called foul.

Our grace shows in how much we howl

or stand simply silent and tall.

For years, I mistook your plaintive call.