A mourning dove on a branch
Past, Present, Future
Never forlorn, the mourning dove
lilted at dusk, as pavement cooled
and we pedaled home. An open-vowel
mantra, intoned from hidden bushes.
Paired with fresh grass, wilting
daffodils, a signal of spring.
Through our open patio door
we watch neighbors parade,
faces covered like kids playing
cowboy. These days, I'm my son's
only playmate as we walk by the creek,
throw a ball. Now inside, bushed,
that lilting litany renews my spirit.
When life speeds up again, I hope
to remember to listen for those
twitters and chirps outside our window,
to walk in the sun for no reason.
And always to pause
to listen to the doves croon at dusk.
- April 29, 2020
