Because the Ground Is Too Hard to Dig

Chris Ellery

March 1, 2026

In the morning

after the party

I find a dove

frozen

on the bottom step

of my back porch.

The mercury is kissing zero.

I’m taking out the garbage

for something to do,

telling myself

be careful don’t slip

don’t slip whatever you do

and break a hip

or worse.

She might have fallen

out of the sky

or off the icy roof 

or from her frigid live oak perch. 

She might have come

to my house

a beggar

seeking shelter.

Now

she is on her back

where winter dropped her,

staring at me

like a totem

carved in wood.

If there are special times

for prayer

this must be one.

I set the garbage 

on the ground

and go back in

for paper towels.

I tear some off the roll.

There’s not a sound I know

inside the house

where recently

so many friends

talked and laughed and sang.

When I go back out,

I’m a little bit surprised

I’m not at all surprised  

the dove is still

dead there on the snow.

I open the bag.

A whiff

of rotting scraps.

Alone with the bird,

I grant myself

a pause

to feel

what holds us.

The ground is frozen hard,

too hard

to dig.

It’s really cold.

I wrap this thing

that was alive

above

in paper towels

and let it fall 

into the bag

without touching it at all.

Chris Ellery resides in San Angelo, Texas, where he taught English for 31 years before his retirement in 2021.