A pair of mourning doves have come to make a nest
in the tight shoulder of the last tree left standing,
little leaves the size of green thumbs, easily shook
and slapped and stuck to rooftops and asphalt
when the winds and whitecaps come.
One less leaf to hide behind when the Cooper’s hawk
spies them as they sunbathe on
warm, crusty garage shingles.
I watch the Mister fly to and from the tree shoulder
to pick tawny mulch down in the yard while
the slender Missus picked out a bit of insufficient vine
and flicked it from her tree.
Mister flies back to the yard to find a better beam
for his deck.
Now it is sunset and the Missus is cooing softer
than I can ever remember a dove coo before,
as if she were humming a little tune to herself
sitting on her deck in a rocking chair,
knitting for the ones on the way.
Rocking and humming softer than the breeze
that makes little green leaves tremble a little.
And I know with every leaf left of me, those littles ones
can hear her.