Yep. I’ve probably missed 17 days. But you know I love ketchup.
The male mourning dove coos his evocative song
his neck widens, his tiny pink feet dance
after the dove lady whose eyes open and close
Is she being coy? Or does she enjoy his song?
Her wings lift her upward to a willow, a breathy call
following her winged flight. He chases, tangos toward her
on a narrow branch, but I cannot tell if she invites or cowers.
I’ve done this dance with equal indecision, not understanding
whether I was inviting or cowering or dreaming of nothing.
Maybe it’s a dance of time, for self and knowledge.
Sascha Darlington 4/19/2018