Perched, no, tucked in,
on the porch swing,
a single mourning dove
huddles against chilly
evening wind.
Lost, probably, from
all the skater doves
trying out their new
long boards.
No, really he was
plotting the downfall
of the tyrannical starlings,
waiting for a cue from the
scrub jay over in the poplar.
Okay, okay. The truth:
He is a murdering bird.
Two crows, a hummingbird
and a cat. All this week.
I wouldn't go out on the porch
tonight if you paid in
gold bullion.
