The Dove

It was the nust of a young dove alone and bobbing her head as she sauntered along the drying grass then settled in, to sun herself every moment cautious turning of her head observing her surroundings; often she comes here knowing it's safe gently cooing at the breeze, then still and quiet, on occasion, she spreads open her wings taking in every warming ray upon her feathers as if waiting for a comrade to share her company; autumn and winter draws her loneliness in seasons perhaps when spring comes, her mate will return.