Selection 9 of
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Mourning Doveby Nancy ClarkRememberings grew in my head. May morning Light against the curtain called me wake To hear the morning canopied with birdsong, Cascades of bubbling voices trebling dawn. Then like a muted piper, smooth and low, The cotton coo-hoo of the mourning dove Came gently from some distant hidden place. And I seemed called to seek it out, to leave My bed and come outside to press my footprints In the dewy grass and stop to touch The fattened peony buds and fuzzy iris. "Come see the worm," teased Grandpa, with the hoe. I backed up. "No." And Grandma, from the house Called, "Come to get your shoes on!" "No, I want To find the little bird," I said and tried To sing its special sounds so Grandpa'd know. He showed me once, the dove with rounded head And color none, so plain I soon forgot. And yet its random calls could make my ears Attend against all louder straining throats. And still it bids me hear in spite of sirens, Speakers, horns, and bells, the constant strings Of ringing things, insistent beckonings That trouble time and teach me urgency. Then comes the dove's soft summons from afar A simple mantra, intimate, intoning Calm. From voice so small, the greatest call. |
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