As I drove into the country today, I saw a turtledove perched on a log. The bird was a soft grey that hinted at pink, its feather lightly dappled brown. She watched me, and I her.
Her mate was no doubt close by, perhaps hidden in the hard, green magnolia leaves or out gathering twigs for their nest.
I clutched the papers in my lap, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other clasped the envelope that rendered the two that became one to two again. The black signatures seemed to burn through the beige sheath, sizzling the un-tanned band of skin on the third finger of my left hand.
Turtledoves mate for life said the voice of my mother. And humans no longer seem to, said the voice in my head.
A shot at prose poetry. It’s definitely not finished yet, just an idea I’m playing around with.