Walking to the Coffeehouse Before Class

We were awake
before the steeple woke
with cannon-bursts of bells,
shaking pigeons from its tower like
the last vestiges of sleep.

And cloud-fat pigeons wend the sky;
bob, sweep, dip, and sigh.
This morning, like so many mornings---
you and I stretch our wings
beneath the first turquoise reaches of sun.

Our love is small and sure---
an egg cradled within
the nest of our two hands.

The pigeons sigh and swing,
lower, lower
towards the silent street.
This morning like so many mornings,

half-remembered
snatches of
birdsong; lovers' talk.

This morning, like so many mornings
gone

leaving not a feather.