Mourning Doves

the doves have no majesty
they squabble like children
lording over the seed
running across the sodden ground
tiny heads thrust forward
pecking each other
for the excess that tumbles down
released by the blue-crowned jay

doves have no shame
they are pigeons in pale costume
crowding the finches and cardinals
chasing them from their breakfast

yet when their coo-coo-cooing
speaks to my melancholy,
all is forgiven

I wonder what soul-scarring tragedy
taught them their song

what monumental loss
wove the sadness into each feathered breast
so that it stayed with every dove
through the endless turning seasons
until, at last, they brought it to my yard
where it resonates with my shattered heart