A white pigeon is digging for something in the snow.

As it digs further, it is disappearing.

A young girl finds it in the Spring,

a handkerchief of thin bones,

or a powder-puff she carries in her purse

for the rest of her days. Toward the end,

she gives it to her granddaughter,

who immediately recognizes it as the death

of the grandmother herself,

and flings it out the window.

It takes flight, utterly thankful

to feel like its old self again.

For a few precious moments it flies

in circles, then back in the window.

The grandmother pitches forward, dead.

The granddaughter lugs her toward the window:

She and the pigeon talk long into the night.

At breakfast, the grandmother says nothing.