Via Negativa: Mourning Dove

Sightless in morning fog,
she laces fallen fibers

of fan palm, bunchgrass,
the birch’s lost twigs,

spins an empty creation.
Conifer needles, the fox’s hair

round out the void,
what was cast off and left

for dead now the dwelling,
twined with stippled space

of eggs to come, primeval
point of departure, dawn

chorus chipping the dark.
Wings rustle, expand

the hollow, nothing
yet something, expectant.

—Laura Reece Hogan