And they will come punctually,
Those dumb, flimsy fly-by-night
Nest-building mourning doves,
Yet still smartly refreshing
As the first spring showers,
And will start melodically
Cooing into our groggy ears
From the rafters outside
Our bedroom balcony, nesting
Their fragile eggs and keeping
A futile eye out for the first signs
Of any crowing poachers already
On standby, strung out
On nearby telephone lines, waiting
To punch the clock and smash
The tender shells of those
Never-to-be fledgling pilots before
They are able to sense whatever
Just hit them.
