Yep. I’ve probably missed 17 days. But you know I love ketchup.

Dove Love

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.

 

end

Sascha Darlington 4/19/2018