Live with a heart that still brings peace.
The dove had been carrying the branch for most of the morning.
This was beginning to seem unnecessary.
There had been no flood.
No ark.
No ancient patriarch leaning over a wooden railing waiting for important botanical news.
Just a white dove, one leafy branch, and a perfectly ordinary Wednesday.
Still, she carried it.
Across the pale rooftops.
Past the windows.
Over a small lake where the morning sun had turned the water silver.
Her wings made a soft frrp—frrp—frrp through the cool air.
The leaves smelled green and slightly bitter where the stem rested against her beak.
Below her, the city was already awake.
Many Windows
The dove landed on a ledge.
Inside the window, two people were arguing.
Not dramatically.
Nobody threw anything.
One person stood beside the sink. The other was holding a mug that had apparently become involved despite having done nothing wrong.
The dove tilted her head.
The woman near the sink said something.
The man answered.
She answered faster.
He opened his mouth.
Stopped.
The kitchen went quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint tick… tick… tick of cooling toast.
The man looked down at his mug.
Then he put it on the counter.
He said something again.
This time more softly.
The woman did not answer immediately.
Her shoulders lowered.
Only slightly.
Then she turned back toward him.
The dove shifted the branch in her beak.
One leaf brushed against the window.
Apparently it was still relevant.
Seven Oranges
Later, she flew over a narrow street.
A cardboard box had split open beside a doorway.
Oranges rolled everywhere.
One reached the gutter.
Another escaped beneath a parked car.
An elderly man stood in the middle of the disaster holding the bottom of the broken box and looking personally betrayed by cardboard.
A young woman walking past stopped.
She checked her watch.
Then checked it again.
The dove watched from a lamppost.
The woman looked down the street.
Then at the oranges.
Then down the street again.
She crouched.
One orange.
Two.
Three.
The old man gathered the others.
A bus passed with a hiss of brakes and the warm smell of diesel.
Somewhere nearby, bread was baking.
A bicycle bell rang twice.
Nobody else stopped.
The young woman reached beneath the parked car.
Her fingers missed.
She knelt lower.
Her sleeve touched the pavement.
Finally she pulled out the last orange.
Dusty.
She wiped it against her sleeve and placed it carefully in the box.
The old man smiled.
She looked at her watch for the third time.
Then hurried away.
The dove watched her disappear around the corner.
One white feather loosened from her breast and floated toward the pavement.
Nobody noticed.
The Empty Seat
By afternoon, the branch had begun to droop.
One leaf had torn.
The dove considered abandoning the entire project.
Then she saw a boy sitting alone beside a playground.
Children were running nearby.
Shoes scraped against concrete.
A ball bounced.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Someone shouted.
Someone laughed.
The boy did neither.
Another child noticed him.
He stopped running.
Looked toward his friends.
Looked back at the boy.
Someone called his name.
He raised one hand.
“Wait.”
Then he walked over and sat down.
For several seconds, neither child spoke.
The ball continued bouncing somewhere behind them.
Thump.
A shout.
Thump.
Laughter.
The first boy scraped the toe of his shoe against the ground.
The other waited.
Eventually the boy said something.
The second child listened.
No advice followed.
No magnificent solution appeared.
After a while, the first boy said something else.
The other moved slightly closer.
Above them, the dove adjusted her grip on the branch.
The torn leaf stayed attached.
So did she.
The Sharp Sentence
The dove returned to the rooftops.
The morning window was still open.
She landed on the same ledge.
Inside, the kitchen had changed very little.
Same sink.
Same refrigerator.
Same innocent mug.
The woman was cutting vegetables.
The man was drying a plate.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then the woman said something.
The man looked at her.
His expression tightened.
The dove tilted her head.
He took a breath.
The plate towel twisted once between his hands.
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
He looked toward the window.
The dove froze.
The branch hung ridiculously from her beak.
For one alarming second, they stared directly at each other.
The man blinked.
The dove blinked.
Then he turned back to the woman.
Whatever sentence had been waiting did not arrive.
He said something else.
Shorter.
The woman looked at him.
Then at the plate in his hands.
A corner of her mouth moved.
He smiled too.
The dove immediately looked away.
This seemed polite.
One Leaf
Near sunset, she returned to the lake.
The air had cooled.
Water moved quietly against the bank.
Shhh… shhh…
The sky smelled faintly of coming rain.
She landed on a low branch and finally released what she had been carrying all day.
The leafy stem fell.
Tap.
The dove stared at it.
One leaf remained caught in her beak.
She shook her head.
The leaf remained.
She shook harder.
Still there.
For a bird that had spent the entire day carrying greenery with considerable dignity, this was becoming embarrassing.
She scratched at it with one foot.
Nearly fell off the branch.
Recovered.
Looked around.
Nobody.
Good.
She tried again.
The leaf finally came loose.
It floated down.
Once.
Twice.
Then landed on the lake.
The dove watched it drift across the silver water.
A small ripple reached it.
The leaf turned slowly and continued toward the reeds.
Behind her, the city windows were beginning to glow.
The dove lifted her wings.
Frrp—frrp—frrp.
She flew toward them.
The leaf kept going.
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