Provenance
by Kathleen Condon
Michelle placed the nest
on the sill after
we'd topped
the Italian cypress
and sent the topmost spire
crashing down. In the chainsawed
timber she found the bowl
with its sure and perfect curve,
its wreath of morning
glory vines and at the center, bright
yolks in pale shells.
Think of that urge, the mourning dove's
flights into winter gardens, dormant
fields, her search beneath dried hedges,
one twig at a time held down
by her claw, the work of her beak,
her grey neck bent
to the task of warp and woof.
Red twine appeared in the weave and reached out
to loop around the nearest branch,
a careful tether, thoughtful mooring,
before its return to the nest. Her foresight
took our breath away. All afternoon
she flew above us from cypress to elm
and back, her familiar "too-who"
replaced by the beating of
broken-hearted wings.
