The Roost

the dove above

nervously fly this mist

fly in the long rain that never reaches

this thirsting reaching earth

the dove are too common for words

even in this murkiness they are quicker

in their dove ways than I

with my cloudy eyes

I listen for the brushing air off the tips of their wings

the spinless wind in their leafless tree

I am in no rush

I am just the misty murmur of me

in the dim coos

cool rain

soonly coming

to my dry

tongue

jppestana december 20, 2016