damn doves are building a nest
right above the bomb target
of two chairs in the garden
our sweet spot in the summer
for a shady view and a
sun-warmed snuggle in the winter
already nest debris adorns the arm rests
with crusty old poop in a splatter pattern
on seat and back cushions and underfoot
I’ve poled the nest apart twice
but they keep rebuilding with
stubborn sticks and pig-headed twigs
I poke at it one more time
As they sit on a power line
bobbing and head-cocking
before flying off
I’m hoping that nature
has some equivalent
to baseball’s strikeout rule
three tries
three misses
you’re out