On Ignorant Design

The mourning dove, unable to move, spread
into a feathered ball in the middle of the sidewalk—
the last option evolution bequeathed this injured
wingmaster with its haunting call. On this freezing

night in Pittsburgh, I steer Mugsi away from this
fluffy gray cushion, its beak golden in streetlight glow.
I don’t want my dog to be its executioner though
Thanatos has already spread his black wings, ready

to blanket this gorgeous creature in his grasp.
How can anyone believe in a supreme being?
This is the plan He/She/It had millennia to devise?
No one ever described nature as benevolent. I take

cold comfort in its cruelty, knowing that nothing
more brilliant than the Milky Way deemed it so.