The Mourning Dove

This morning I was paid a visit from a mourning dove.

Perched outside my bedroom window, her calm coo cools the air of spring’s warm morning light. Another Friday morning. Another cup of coffee. Tangled in messy sheets; my freckled shoulders kissed by dawn. I’m eager to go nowhere. I’d rather admire the morning’s sky dancers.

Together, we watch the morning with keen eyes, thinking of our next move. We’ve both got work to do. Her little head shifts from side to side, with a tiny neck of fluffed feathers stacked on a big body, like a lid on a pot.

Patient and peaceful, she glides on rays of light. Carrying twisted twigs in her beak, she passes from my window to the neighboring yard. One by one, she gathers and arranges twigs for a growing family. On repeat, she floats by with tucked feet; branch by branch, pass by pass.

And as she disappears to her nest, I hear the morning’s song drift through my window: the shooting pew of the cardinal, the pitchy chirp of a house finch, the white throated sparrow’s bouncy whistle riding the wind. I hear all the morning’s voices that often go unheard on the rush to the car or the cold, frosty mornings turned away from my window.

Nested in my bed, I think of all the voices we don’t hear. All the little creatures, living their little lives. My own little life.

And these little birds just live in the background, day by day, some never heard or noticed. They spend their days searching for a mate, rebuilding their homes, freezing in the season’s last frost — all the while, singing. And I realize I’m part of the background, too.

Another cup of coffee. Another rising sun.

We’re all a little bird to someone.

Midnight mourning dove

By Kelley Davis | Acrylic on canvas