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Mourning Doves

I hose water once across the window ledge

Pausing to aim at the mourning doves

The pair building a nest

Their second

The first slid from the metal

in last night’s hot wind

The single egg shattered

on the concrete below

A pang            an apology                “Don’t nest there!”

Words to stop my own mourning.

A whistle of primaries

They fly to the hedge

Last spring a pair nested in that same spot

I heard the male cry

on the light pole for an hour

After the Coopers hawk took his mate

off that ledge

The feathers rained down

Scattered over where the yolk lies

Shriveling in the sun.