Sitting and Writing, A Dove

There was
A White-tipped Dove
Hooting before I walked inside
To get this pad
To get this pen
And now
I’ve returned to my spot
On the little wooden steps
That lead nowhere
Among the tall, green grass
Which the morning sun shines through so well
Next to the old Cottonwood
Adventurous, onyx-black ants venturing
Up and down
Climbing into and out
Of canyons in its gnarled, crevassed bark
And the dove is silent.

Instead, the screech and chatter of magpies
And the rapid, staccato hammering of a Lawrence’s Woodpecker
On the old tree behind me
It’s tallest limbs naked, dry, bare
Prodding at the sky like an historical monument
One without a plaque, without a name
Without much significance at all
Largely unknown but to those
Who know to look.

And the soft “churr” of crickets
Nearly imperceptible in the background
The background which we move upon
That an arm, a leg
A gesture
Thrusts up from
It is the background against which all our monuments
All the daily minutiae manifests itself
Expresses itself in relief
If one sits still long enough the dove may return
To softly whistle her call amongst
The cacophony of the day.

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