Black Lives Matter: A Nature Poem

The peepers are peeping in my garden, my overgrown garden, and it’s still early, at least until 8 AM. I heard a commuter jet just moments ago. I can detect traffic far off on the interstate. There are gold finches in my yard debating with the crickets. BLACK LIVES MATTER. There’s a mourning dove somewhere among my apple trees. He is sometimes called the Carolina Pigeon. The British call him the Turtle Dove. BLACK LIVES. I think it’s good to be specific. The dove’s wings make a whistling sound when they take off and land. This is called “sonation” and as a blind person I enjoy this. BLACK LIVES MATTER. Long ago, when I was a child, I used to run away from home. Blind kid running. I was often alone among the trees. That was when I learned how to listen. BLACK LIVES MATTER. One thing I like about nature and nature writing is the fulsomeness of it: mourning doves feed their chicks on “crop milk” which is essentially the regurgitation of seeds. I knew an ornithologist once who tasted this. BLACK LIVES MATTER.

I love the morning.