Correct me if I’m wrong,
but as far as I know,
this is what a young dove
does not normally do: remain
perched atop a pine tree
branch for the better part
of a beautiful day. And here is what
a woman does not normally
do, as far as I know,
on the same still
Sunday afternoon: glide
along a pedestrian path
in the garden as if on
an airport passenger conveyor,
disappearing in the distance
behind the tree — her
dress white and billowy
like a heavy fog
or a cumulus cloud

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