The Mourning Doves are singing
In the Pines.
Even the Blue Jays listen in silence
to the song drift and haunt
from the nearby tree,
performers still hidden
by morning mist's lateness
in drawing back the curtain
on their stage.
The song
isn't for the accolades,
it's just their nature.
Cooing and calling,
mournful notes
summoning memories
and ghosts of childhood,
some happy,
some just shades.
My soul recognizes their tune,
my feet move
in simple steps and rhythm
and, oh so quietly
under my breath,
I sing along.
In the pines…
_________________________________________________________________Chris Dean writes from the heart of Indiana. They are the author of two books of poetry, Tales From a Broken Girl and We're All Stories in the End, published by Storeylines Press.
In the Pines.
Even the Blue Jays listen in silence
to the song drift and haunt
from the nearby tree,
performers still hidden
by morning mist's lateness
in drawing back the curtain
on their stage.
The song
isn't for the accolades,
it's just their nature.
Cooing and calling,
mournful notes
summoning memories
and ghosts of childhood,
some happy,
some just shades.
My soul recognizes their tune,
my feet move
in simple steps and rhythm
and, oh so quietly
under my breath,
I sing along.
In the pines…
_________________________________________________________________Chris Dean writes from the heart of Indiana. They are the author of two books of poetry, Tales From a Broken Girl and We're All Stories in the End, published by Storeylines Press.
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