two doves

It was out grazing peacefully in the rolling meadow beyond a hurried silent brook, down by the skeletal timbers of an old church with a solid bell tower and wild wheat-colored pampas grass shooting in bunches out of the crumbled stone walkway.

Lowering the binoculars to his chest, he raised the sight and sweatily squeezed one off, dropping the black beast. There wasn't a soul around to celebrate. It deserved a New Orleans-style funeral procession with plenty of cowbell, raspberrian tubas, and golden horns. Or a ticker tape parade. Ding Dong the beast was dead. He waved to the crowds lining the sidewalks that were no wheres to be seen. Not even a rolled-down proclamation read by the pasty Mayor of Munchkinland.

After awhile he felt empty, mighty lonesome. Then guilt was seeping in. He wept quietly. He murdered a hungry animal that was only guilty of being attracted to a Twinkie that a rather large lady was preparing to devour at a picnic table. Even in the throws of death the black beast was still showing angry teeth and when he moved in for a closer look-see, its open eyes startled him so he back peddled over an old rusty cast iron hand pump, tripped and accidentally squeezed another shot off. The bullet ricocheted off the bell waking two nesting pure white doves lazily brushing their outstretched wings against the hundred-year-old ancient bell, navigating into the blue with the precision of a sextant eastward in the direction of Assisi.
And they went together.