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.
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