Sometimes I Hear

Sometimes I hear the mourning dove

sounding off at the periphery of awareness.

It was there when I climbed that towering pine,

and couldn’t find toe-holds to get down.

It may have been there when the first green pushing

sounded after last winter’s snow.

It has been there, mountain mornings

Blue sky bold enough to avert my eyes,

announcing a world beyond my blinkered gaze.

I went where I was called, as only the meek--the oak or the beech--might know.

But things change: the crows will hallelujah praise 

even as the mourning doves perch under barn eaves 

their soft sounds a solid witness before flight.