Short spring, the grass wants to turn
in the sand and shallow ground, a sunburned
tan, and the birds have turned to serious

nesting, feeding and breeding on the branch,
on the ground or on the redwood railing.
Immigrants, interlopers, the ring-neck doves

cry like babies before landing overhead.
One white female parades the rail
to her drab gray mate’s dance and croon

as we welcome evening with a glass of wine.
Flutter too quick to get a camera, they whine
together, ecstatic as coyotes across the canyon.


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