The light-brown Mourning Dove pecked at the kernel of cracked corn.
Fat with grain, she hobbled, still eating.
Springtime and eggs are coming.
She waddles and pecks, driven by instinct.
The only thing more powerful than the need to eat,
is the need to nest.
She ;picks up a single bristle from an old broom.
She gathers brown withered weeds.
She collects a shimmery piece of Christmas tinsel.
Her beak is fat with strings, twigs, and strands of whatnot.
She sees another kernel of corn.
Her beak is full.
Kernel of corn.
Beak is full.
Her thoughts cannot go in two directions.
The snow begins to fall, as snow does in February.
The snow falls on her back turning her light brown feathers snowy white.
The quandary plays over in her mind.
The snow falls.
Her eyes dart back and forth.
The flurry gains force and her feet disappear in the snow.
It covers the grain.
The Mourning Dove tries to remember why she’s sitting in the snow.