The Nest

I walk out for the paper and flush a covey
of mourning doves up into the gumbo-limbo tree. 
Sometimes I hardly remember my own body.
But if I sit still, the birds will flutter down
eventually. They’ll forget that I’m sitting in the grass.
And so I’ll disappear by holding still, hardly 
breathing. Don’t ask why I would spend
my time so absurdly, in my suburban front yard:
Someday a dove might land on my shoulder
to peck at my hair and beard; someday 
a dove might try to build a nest inside my shirt
and I won’t shoo her away.

Michael Hettich | Mudlark No. 40 (2010)
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