Apparently the young dove had been in the office all night and through the morning.
When I came, he announced himself, slowly circling the room, resettling on a bookcase.
He would rise to the ceiling, fly over the doors, not seeing he could duck out and be free.
And so we danced together, partners not touching, a full twenty minutes, until he tried to batter down a wall with his gentle wings, and I took him in tentative hands.
How quietly he nested there, his demure head still, ahead of my thumbs.
I felt like a churchman bearing saint's relics as we promenaded outside.
As I tossed him into the air, how the leaves and sun applauded, his wings also, bursting upward, out into everywhere, he leaving me a tail feather for reward. I have kept it, of course.