In grass beneath the ravaged feeder,

accepting rejected seed dropped

or flung away by purple finch,

the pair bob thanks that go unseen

except by me.

Sated, they ascend

to birdbath rim, meekly chanting,

seeking permission few could deny.

In monkish semblance they drink.

Again, sated…

they lift with

white-tipped, feather robes trailing

to sing in calls we’ve name mourning

but which can only be joyous coos

of gratitude.

What watcher first

saw the dove as symbol of peace

of hope, of love, of a risen god?

I’ve lived a lifetime and only now

I ask this question?