Snap. Fold. Stack.
Drumming a domestic rhythm against the long strains of winter; my soliloquy to spring. A soft coo from outside the laundry room window slips into this cadence; accent on the upbeat. It fits the morning ensemble the way things long-anticipated and then forgotten often do.
Understated. Delicate. Orderly.
I’ve been waiting a long time for this.
Relatively speaking.
February 14th, 2011 - My husband and I put up a platform bird-feeder. I want to draw in doves. I want to absorb their haunting cry. I try to imagine it. Almost crave it. I wonder what it sounds like.
February 23rd, 2011 - I trudge through snow to the middle of the yard and refill what only finches have consumed. I peer at the trees. At the sky. A song is in my head. “How can u just leave me standing, alone in a world that’s so cold? Maybe I’m just 2 demanding…”
“Maybe I’m just like my father but doves_ will_ come, damn-it-anyway!” I scream.
Is this what it sounds like?
It's been a long winter.
Relatively speaking.
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| dig if u will the picture... |
February 23rd, 2011 - I trudge through snow to the middle of the yard and refill what only finches have consumed. I peer at the trees. At the sky. A song is in my head. “How can u just leave me standing, alone in a world that’s so cold? Maybe I’m just 2 demanding…”
“Maybe I’m just like my father but doves_ will_ come, damn-it-anyway!” I scream.
Is this what it sounds like?
It's been a long winter.
February 28th, 2011 - I notice a pair of doves perched in the oak at the edge of the yard, striking curious poses. They do this for about an hour and finally fly away. This is the last I see of them. Maybe they heard me screaming. (Even doves have pride.)
I give up.
I give up.
Until this morning.
Perhaps they feel the heat between me and laundry and rhythm and forgetting. Perhaps they sense the heat of the tears that burn at the edge of my vision at the sudden awareness to their cry.
"Darling don't cry."
But there they are on the platform, as if they have always belonged to this place, eating their fill.
Perhaps they feel the heat between me and laundry and rhythm and forgetting. Perhaps they sense the heat of the tears that burn at the edge of my vision at the sudden awareness to their cry.
"Darling don't cry."
But there they are on the platform, as if they have always belonged to this place, eating their fill.
Lyrics (used throughout) from “When Doves Cry” by Prince
2 comments:
I love to see the doves perched on our deck. Looking at them brings a moment of peace in the midst of life. When they take flight, I love to listen to the sound. Thanks Angela, for reminding me to enjoy those moments!
Awesome! you can make anything into a work of art, even waiting for doves and folding laundry!
luv ya!
Sonia V.
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