Dove Brigade

The crows, they came to warn me of the pending winds of doom.
And the coming of the Dove Brigade, arriving none too soon.
The warring-time agenda was simple all for form:
Choose a mate, move in flocks, brave the coming storm.

Fire breathing nemeses, with wings of boney mail,
each baring hardened fangs of death and serpentine-like tail.
To own the skies, and so the land, and all its precious crop;
With violence and dominance, and will that does not stop.

The Dove Brigade would thwart the threat before it even starts.
And turn the vicious breath of fire to warming as from hearths.
The plan was short, in principle, yet grand in its intent;
engage the fledgling dragons to wield for other bent.

The optimistic younger souls will bring the coup de gras.
Informed of tending fallow fields that merit burning straw.
And needs of paths through bramble tight for flow both dry and wet.
And joys of love and friendship that they've not imagined yet.

As fledglings tend the roosting whelps while mothers fly to war;
a generation overturn will visit future-ward.
The optimistic younguns, still blessed with hearts of saint;
will call their kin, "Return to Roost" in cadence, salient.

© Sean G. O'Leary 2019

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