If you listen, You can hear the language of the birds. The Mourning Dove cries in her 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 it From behind the thin sheet of glass That separates us.