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.