When it died, the porcupine
leaked its fluids onto the snow
like a junker car.
I turn it over
with a stick: no sign
of a wound.
Startled up from the forest floor,
sixteen doves go whistling
into the snow squall.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I love the last two lines!
Thanks. I had my doubts (as usual).