When the sun goes down
and the skies turn indigo,
they flap their wings restlessly,
a hark a hoot a coon,
a soft musical melody in the evening air,
somewhere in the deep far woods
They come in flocks
dressed in white,
quickly taking refuge
in the isolated banyan tree.
Disappearing into the
ghastly branches,
I search for the white
but in vain
as they have already
blended and camouflaged.
They fly away distantly
before long i realize
that the brown speck
was the white dove.
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