Quarantine Poem

If you listen,

You can hear the language of the birds.

The Mourning Dove cries in its nest

In the darkest corner of the back porch.

Secluded in my home,

I observe it like one studies the migration pattern of geese.

I know its feathers like I know the lines on my palm,

The brown of my own eyes.

I’ve even dreamt about her,

Up in her nest.

The sky is blue,

But a jet cuts through it,

Leaving behind a white, cloudy scar.

The air,

Its scarred face is the cleanest it has

been for years.

I admire her

From behind the thin sheet of glass

That separates us.