July 20 by The Running Son
Doves Turn Around
You are on your way home.
I can feel you.
No other home or homing pigeon reprogram
shall erase the message I left for you,
in your fabric, threaded
with passion and DNA tested,
and GPS dialed to a specified
genetic altitude and mileage, triangulated
to the points of least resistance,
then closed and no longer debatable,
even though you find a pocket of air
and keep insisting.
Sound over air.
you are coming home.
Love has a way about it.
Tones call doves flying alone,
and blue skies and rival flying objects
have no rule when vocal chords
call you in tune, a dove cooing.
But a dove
braving intense spiraling
and the energetic mining of clouds,
with much loud and manic
crying and twirling about, and diving,
open-eyes first, downward,
striving not to lose the sound
or get caught in an…
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