A Dove

On my small porch,
a dove has made her quiet claim–
two pale promises resting
in the shallow grammar of fragile twigs.

The door had been closed for months before me.
No footsteps, no sudden sounds.
No reason for fear.

She had found what we all look for–
a place undisturbed long enough
to believe in tomorrow.

Now I arrive
with sudden sounds and movement and ownership,
opening doors like declarations–thoughtless.

She startles at my clatter,
rises like a thought interrupted,
her heart a fluttering question
I cannot answer.

What does she say of me, I wonder,
in the courts where all creatures are heard?
Does she call me intruder?
Does she name me destroyer?
Does she plead,
Keep my children from this man
who comes with noise and presence?

And I–
I who mean no harm,
I, who have only inherited this roof for a while–
stand here, a giant in her fragile world,
yet a stranger to her fear.

I want to answer her,
If I could.
Stay, I would say.

I have no quarrel with your nest,
I'm no danger to your fragile future.

But I do not speak dove,
and she does not speak intention.
So we remain- 

two lives crossing unevenly.

For somewhere between roof and sky,
between man and bird,
There lives a quiet truth:

That to be so powerful
in another creature’s world
is to be forever a threat-intended or not.

And to live well
is to walk gently anyway.

So I have begun to move softer now.
I close my doors like prayer.
Even my thunderous laughter learns restraint.

For I am a thoughtless intruder
in the peaceful world of a bird.

She watches me still.

And I- 
I try, in the small ways I can,
to be the kind of man
a frightened bird
never has to pray about.