When I was twenty,
because there were millions of moments
out there ahead of me,
I paid no attention to a mere
fluttering of a flock of doves.
But, now, because I am,
as my 70 year old,
much loved wife giggles to say,
“in your 69th year”
not yet ancient, certainly,
but well within the realm of “old”,
and closer, but still some distance,
from that determined destiny of death,
when I sit on our back deck
on a too warm to be winter
January Sabbath eve,
watching the sun set,
leafless trees standing stark
against the cloud grayed sky,
the night-made chill shivering the chimes,
comes that flock of doves,
whirring their Three Stooges gurgle as they wing by.
And I offer razored attention.
I don’t know why they
just this moment fly,
nor where they nest for the night.
I sense only these fleeting few
Then nothing but fiery sunset clouds
turned iron gray,
dark crept up from the valley
stands of pines melted into black.
It is this dove flight moment
as days end comes upon me,
I cling to