The Lord liked his meat well done, oxen, lamb or pigeon, which must’ve been nearer to dove when they journeyed out of Egypt. The burning fat smelled good, no one denied this, even if the point was to atone, lay a hand on the head of beast or bird before splashing its blood against the altar. The Tent, a messy place. Having wrung no necks, I crouch in the backyard watching two mourning doves huddled in the stones. They are as gray as brown, with speckled wings and a sleek chinlessness that gives gleam to black beak and eye. In a seeming hunch, mother and nestling or nearly fledgling, rest full side against full side. At the mouth of the great tent of this city, they could be hurt or passing time. Later, I find them waiting or not waiting on the grill. How brave. When they lift off I don’t see it, have never been part of the decision making of doves. I’m sorry they didn’t choose better, the suburbs, where at least there’s a thatch of grass. I’m still learning the subtleties of sacrifice. A bird and I make different choices when we consider giving over to the Lord.