With Birds in Quarantine

The pair of pigeons

that come to drink from our pool 

are here, watch me write,

one leaves, the other

flutters up 

to sit next to the plastic owl

atop the garage, 

both facing two sparrows

that are never here

at the same time, 

take turns, have no conflict, 

move quick 

like frames missing 

from a film I’ve started 

to settle into,

when one 

crosses the water

low, hits the surface 

with the tips 

of each wing, 

sends growing Cs

or a capital S

to opposite sides

of our blue clover, 

drawing creases across

this bowl that collects 

every color of sky 

at a leisurely wobble,

slow symbols

taking their time

to cross the morning 

the perfect gift to receive 

this early 

on a weekend, alone.

Sparrow (pastels on recycled sketch paper, May 30, 2020)