The doves have no majesty
they squabble like children
lording over the seed
running across the frozen ground like chickens
tiny heads thrust forward
pecking each other
and the excess that tumbles down,
released by the blue-crowned jay
Doves have no shame
they are pigeons in pale costume
crowding the finches and cardinals
chasing them from their breakfast
Yet when their coo-coo-cooing
speaks to my melancholy
all is forgiven
I wonder what soul scarring tragedy
taught them their song
What monumental loss
wove the sadness into each feathered soul
so that it stayed with every dove
through the endless turning seasons
until, at last, they brought it my yard
where it resonates with my shattered heart