The watcher


She perches, somewhat uncomfortably, watching. The window is high up, above my bed. The fascination is the doves on the roof next door, which is slightly behind us, so this is the only place to watch them.

When she arrived she was too small for the jump, and then the window was all closed up and insulated for the winter.

Now the window is always open, so she climbs up to watch the antics of the doves. They flutter about, cooing and billing as their amorous natures wax lyrical with the summer.

Sometimes she just stands upright on the bed rail, peering out at them. Other times she sits on the little window ledge itself.

Too often she seems to leap or slip down, right onto me, sleeping below.

That is a startling way to wake up.

Now having watched them until she is bored, or maybe until they have tired of their amorous escapades and gone to find breakfast, she lies curled against me. The picture of innocence.

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