a dove waits for a patrol of whirling hawks to pass overhead,
from the nest he flies, north, to scratch in the dirt to find his chicks food,
helicopters weedwack his gray head feathers as he flies across the river.

his ground is burnt sienna, desert hard, cracked below, his feet,
the seed owner’s ground is Columbian, American Roast, a little caramel,
and didn’t know anything about doves watering hemp in Brazoria County:
“Where Texas began” from a county of doves.