An Inca Dove flies to and fro
Landing graceful in my yard
Grist for any poet, bard
Her cooing soft and low.
Warm gray body, flash of wing
Whatever does she do?
I see her as her task ensues
She does a constant thing.
Back and forth the small bird flies
Of this I can attest
She pulls grass for her small nest
Right before my eyes!
I've been sitting here for hours
Thinking on my dreams
Lazily, or so it seems
For that bird builds her tower!
She goes by instinct, like the ant
Who burrows in the soil
Ever constant with her toil
'Til she would sit and pant!
While I do nothing in my seat
She flies away, and then
She comes for grasses yet again
Until her nest's complete!
Would that all the warring nations
Sit down to agree
To make the people warring-free
With such dedication!
Emulate the gentle dove
She slaves to rear her young
She works away and softly sung
Her song of purest LOVE.
SøułSurvivør
(C) 4/18/2017
