Remembrance

The doves have come back again

this year.  Their flimsy nest is in

an octagon basket built from popsicle

sticks.  The basket holds a dormant

orchid plant whose white roots

vein out through the sticks and then

turn back in again.  It hangs by wire

not two yards from where I sip

my afternoon beer.  The two

chicks and the parent take turns

watching me with an unflinching

tiny round eye like the one in

the pyramid on the back of a dollar.

I doubt they trust me, but when

I water the plants before going in

and come to them they tip up their

little tails but they do not show

sheer panic.

Yesterday, the chicks were standing

leaning back against the parent as if

scratching their backs  with their

wings held out to empty afternoon air.

I went into my own house and this

morning the chicks were gone, soaring

off in a dangerous world without roof or

wall.  A world where remembrance

alone can pass for love.

FG  2/10/2014