Red Dove

I saw a red Dove
that nests in a spruce
that spreads low boughs
over my garden.
And you would say
(as I did)
that it's a Cardinal
with visor shade eyes.
But a Cardinal calls in
a song unmistakable,
long hard notes that
sonic for miles.
When the bird I saw
leaves his shady recline,
he squeaks like a
child squeeze toy
with each beat
of his wings.

But I'm not surprised.
My yard holds magic.
You enter a trance
when you pass by the house
and enter the green
of thirty foot cedars
at the back that dance.
It takes a moment to accept
that the birch has eyes
that open and close
and watch you enter,
then follow you closely
until you leave.

I saw the red Dove
descend in an arc,
a graceful loop like
it had swung off a swing.
And it waddled head bobbing
toward a small boy,
the eternal boy
who always knows why.