i was hearing a mourning dove
each morning as i wrote at the kitchen table at copp's house
and then i didn't hear her
and then i saw her up here in the rafters
sitting on her eggs
no longer mourning in song
not wishing to call
attention to herself
but i had heard the song though not for me
and i was perhaps unduly
curious
and now i await the songs incubating
in the little eggs