A mourning dove sits alone
on a wire stretched between
poles–one in my yard and
the other in the neighbor’s
yard two doors down.
I’m watching from the porch below,
and as I watch I imagine–though
it’s impossible for me to know–
that this is the same bird I see
every morning, perched in that
same spot on the wire,
preening his feathers, lifting
each wing and digging with his beak.
And I think, does he wonder about
me? Watching me, does he imagine
that I am the same creature that comes
every morning to perch on the same yellow chair,
drink tea from the same sugar skull
mug? The same bare feet propped on the same
railing with an open book resting in my lap?
Though really, it’s impossible for him to know.
©stephanie pepper, 2019