I once, surprisingly, had breakfast with a bird,
When I was searching for my muse,
And lost in thought of breath and life,
Wondering where it all went,
Pondering what it all will become.
Between sips of velvet, warm coffee,
That was hugged delicately inside my blue, antiqued mug,
Which, fittingly, had a cobbled design of a Siren,
Because my morning involves planning for total conquest of the sea.
It was then, I felt a presence.
An energy that interrupted the calm.
My solitary sense of self changed.
I felt eyes watching me, stalking me.
It was there, just beyond the glass door,
Which was smeared with tiny fingerprints and dog drool,
He sat on the clay red patio, staring at me,
In the light of the morning,
With his (or her) little eye,
Head seemingly, uncontrollably, telling me, “Yes!”
I was perplexed. Nature was at my door, literally.
But upon being noticed, he did not move away.
He did not turn in panic.
He just gazed at me.
And in between heart beats, he still told me, “Yes!”
This bird, a Mourning Dove, surveyed me in my home,
Just out of reach, but close enough.
What do you know, my friend, which I did not?
He comfortably and serenely settled down in a puff of gray feathers,
In the warm daybreak sun, right there – alone,
Beside me, outside the glass.
He seemed to understand something of me.
Did this Mourning Dove hold the answers?
Did he hold the stars, the universe, all tucked in his pearled feathers?
Did he keep secrets under his wings?
I sipped my ancestral elixir of caffeine and sugar,
Observing how this apparent ordinary Dove was content in his being.
The morning sun glowed, and he appeared to take in the light.
He smelled the dewed green grass.
He heard the gentle applause of the aspen leaves.
He cherished the giant rolling wave of the purple cosmos rising from the dirt.
He was thankful for the amount of birdseed in the feeder, from which I am sure he dined.
This particular Mourning Dove, from what I saw, was not mourning.
Yet, he somehow knew of mine.
I finished my brew, Siren cup empty,
And, just as if he knew his job was complete,
He fluttered up and away.
How fitting to contemplate life’s purpose,
When having breakfast with a Mourning Dove.