Marilyn Baszczynski

Soft graying of the night,
a dove gently coos
like the chirping whirr of the IV, soothing
morphine offers pain-free sleep,
regular breathing like peaceful
oblivion from neck braces, falling horses.

Brown-red bricks and pebbled rooftops,
hospital buildings metamorphose
out of the lightening shadows,
most of the city still misted over
and houses lie hidden under
branches of palest gray.

Doves soar above the rooftops,
land on their pebbled beaches to
join others for a quick dance,
mambo, cha-cha, and then fly off
to find new partners as their
music crescendos.

A mourning dove alights on our window ledge,
“Coo-ah, coo, coo, coo.”
Her soft black eyes encircled with blue
mesmerize my red-rimmed ones.
I sense that she has also watched
one of her fledglings fall from the nest.
She knows my frustration.

I startle at the flurry of wings.
A stir and rustle on the bed
draws my gaze inward to where
a small voice is still hidden in darkness.
“Mom?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
The dove soars into a sky
tinged with red and gold.