By Andrea Connolly

In the yard I sit on my ashlar, a bowl of seed in reach. I scatter a few in my cupped hands looking up.
The chatter in the dovecot is music in my ears. I listen to different voices: “rou-que–dee–gu”. The flapping and spreading of wings against the morning sun graces my fluttery soul. I squint up where on top of the roof is another little house for my feathery friends. Their gentle colours brush soft inward perceptions of sky dwellers. My heart leaps when they advance towards me, hop-hop, then peck seeds from my hands with their rosy beaks.
Inside I fly a little with them, my dreamy thoughts flutter up and up, and there is no limit in my silent communication with the doves. They listen to my cajoling, my enchantment, my giggles. They ogle me with friendly demeanour. They accept the gift of seeds.
I am four years old yet would be delighted to sit on my ashlar all my life, with doves as friends who could stand against me?

6th of May 2014
©Copyright by Andrea Connolly

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