Why is the lake shunned by them?
Splinters on its edges perhaps.
Is that why they skirt it carefully,
only to scatter in breathless fright,
when she comes in sight.
She goes where she dares
crunching on glass,
walking on air.
Dips her feet in; dunks her head,
tosses at the grass.
Now the shards are in her hair.
The doves rush in where the
hawk is unafraid to tread.