Two gray doves alight on a fence
across from where I write. The smaller

makes to scoot off each time
the other sidles near, but gradually

accepts the gesture, leaning in,
letting herself be tended. I watch

the large bird totter to preen the other,
asking nothing I can see in return.

Maybe a husband and wife carrying on
through moods and seasons, joy and

joy’s cousin, strife. But I rather hope
they’re an eldest child sitting a spell

beside her mother. This is how it feels
to be cherished properly, the placid

rose gray mother coos to her mild
mother-of-pearl daughter.