One day I was singing, As I sat in the crown of that great ash tree.

Legs 'a dangling from my perch,

Feet 'a swinging through the leaves.

Listening to the lullaby of a mourning Dove's true song.

I didn't hear the flap of wings,

Great wings as soft as night.

All I heard was that terribly shrill cry, that the Dove sang out.

As it fell from that morning sky of blue and gold.

Swaying in the sudden calm,

Clinging to my wooded perch.

I heard the keening cry,

That that Dove threw out into the morning sky.

I listened to those whispered notes, of that impossibly sweet song.

Far below that little Dove sang,

Far, far below me,

In the dirt and dust of morning.

And as that dove sang it's last song,

I swear the world paused.

To listen to those dying notes,

And appreciate such wonder.

For this would be the last time, this little Dove did fly,

For this was the last time, this little Dove's sweet song,

Would Grace the golden hours, of the brightening new day,

And mourning sky.