The road wasn't a proper road; it was
two ruts across a pasture and down
into a dry creek bed and up
 
the other side, a cow path really,
soft sand up to the hub caps.
You didn't gun it at the right time,
 
he said. I knew that before he
said it, but I didn't know how to get
the old Chevrolet out of the crevice
 
I had wedged it into. You'll figure it out,
he said, and then he took a walk,
left me to my own devices, which until
 
that moment had included tears.
My face remained nearly dry,
as was the gas tank when he finally
 
returned, took a shovel out of the trunk,
and moved enough sand from around
the rear tires so he could rock
 
back and forth and get a little traction.
That country had very little traction;
it had mourning doves, which lay their eggs
 
on the ground, a few twigs for a nest,
no fluff. Mourning dove. Even the name
sounds soft. Even the notes they coo,
 
perched on a fence wire. But they are
hatched on the dirt. When they leave the shell,
the wind is already blowing their feathers dry.