Fields of Real Estate
05.25.02 11:45am the G & F Farm, Interlaken, NY
Two Mourning Doves squat plump on a high wire.
Lovers alone: their folded wings touch feel one another,
a conduit for their knowing, heartbeats merge
Wheat, alfalfa, corn stretch out below.
Above: the sky with gray and white washes
A sudden bolt into the atmosphere, a dive
into the grass to forage, then back again.
As before, their metatarsals enclose
one bare-scant hum of the continuum,
a sliver of commotion drawn from
telephone pole to telephone pole going
ya-ta-ta ya-ta-ta ya-ta-ta ad-in-fi-na-tum
And no sound.
Only the silence of day
realized by the work of tractor, the hum of pick-up,
the wind, by the call of crow, the bark of dog,
the wind, by the trumpeted moan of cow, always
the wind sashaying with wheat, corn and the future.
Side by side our Mourning Doves wait.
Holy spectator, timeless specter, waiting.
Etched in sunrise and sunset, waiting.
Washed in rain and wind, waiting.
Waiting for the glare the din of shopping mall,
parking lot, the future.