Noah surely knew that, for the news he needed,
he would have to dispatch a bird that mates for life,
and only one, the female, who, as the waters
waned would nonetheless return, with a branch,
not for Noah, though it would serve his purpose,
but for her partner, the male darkly chosen.
And her message of the severed branch was this:
When I go out again, as I must, but return no more,
find me in the olive grove, waiting and not waiting,
building a nest of twigs and leaves fallen on ground
that has swilled the flood and dried and bloomed.
Found her he must have, for there is a dove hen
this morning on my railing, pale gray back to me,
feathers lifted, burnished head majestic, recalling
another, shaved and scarved, bright eye turned
to mine through slatted blinds, my oatmeal gone
cold on the stove. This dove has also lost the one
who found her, the one who made her feel she did
the finding. I do not know the message of her
empty beak, but read it to serve my purpose. We
who love until death must learn how to find again,
in the way we were found. The ark runs aground.
The earth soaks up every drop. For the drained,
what brims is out there, waiting and not waiting.
