I’d rather watch the mourning doves

I’d rather watch them preen

I’d rather watch them peck at each others necks, grasp beaks, bob back and forth

I’d rather watch one soft, gray feather float to the earth against the backdrop of a foggy morning sky and then disappear behind an olive tree — mint green leaves

I’d rather watch that tree sway gently in the quiet breeze, its motion almost imperceptible, not old enough yet to hold the weight of a dove but branches that reach for the sky anyway

Only one dove remains now, the male, perched on the electrical line that hangs over my front yard, over the olive tree

He turns his head to the side, the bird, I see him looking. Does he see the swirl and ache of the tree? The swirl and ache of me?