Fat mourning doves took breakfast in my yard
today; their feathers flashed a rim of white
as they enfolded landing air. It’s hard
to miss how much they walk like chickens, sight
like pigeons, look like dinner on short legs.
I don’t eat poultry but these birds bear breasts
too fat for far: anatomy that begs
a butcher render them a meal for guests.
I rarely see fat fowl on this ground.
My garden’s home to sparrows, hummingbirds
and robins. Now and then a raptor’s found
good grazing here, and lately there are herds
of crows that shoot the air with caws above,
while foraging below’s a mourning dove.