Mourning Doves
[3221.1]I think mourning doves have the most beautiful call of all the birds. This statement may be driven by nostalgia as couplings of doves would often hoot me awake in my childhood bedroom—sleepily opening my eyes and stretching to their coos. They remind me of my mom and cups of English breakfast tea with milk and honey, and of how the cool morning shade they nested in felt so refreshing before the heat of the day in Southern California. That’s probably why I thought they were “morning” doves until last year. Today, I woke up in Joshua Tree, California and was anxious from the possibilities of a new and open day but was calmed by the pleasant hootings of my friends, the mourning doves. Yesterday, as I absentmindedly read my self-help book under the shade of a mature Mesquite tree, two doves fluttered and swooped through the air in front of me and settled in the branches behind my head. I watched as they fluffed their feathers and made little noises to each other. They’re like horsemen of the Apocalypse but rather than signaling fire and brimstone, they announce the arrival of another quiet, perfunctory evening or (hopefully) tranquil morning. I think they’re perfect. They go to work in the morning, providing calming coos to their anxious admirers, go about their day eating seeds (?) and bickering, and nestle under a bush at dusk, bundled up in their desert gray feathers and with their tiny heads resting on each others’ shoulders. Or so I imagine. Two large cups of English breakfast and two little mourning doves.
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