In between the roar
of the buses
and the screaming
man who wants to
help you, too, be
saved and the recyclables
clattering into the belly
of the trash truck
and the loudtalkers
and the two tiny
dogs who battle daily
on their morning
walk, sometimes,
in that just-before-morning
hour, as I rush
to the car, always late
to work, there is the
small, long call
of the mourning dove.
It sounds so faraway,
so hypnotic and
otherworldly that
for a moment, I
always wonder
if it is just a
figment of my
own brain, a
bit of curious
so out of place, here
calling in the
morning on
43rd street.


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