It is March—finally nearing spring—though it still feels like the middle of winter in Michigan with snow, ice, and bitter winds most every day lately. One day this past week though I had a mourning dove just outside my window at dusk making his call. It was so loud it startled me—I heard him before I saw him. He kept at it for a few minutes, eyeing me as I peeked through the blinds. The next morning he was out there again (or, had been out there all night sleeping), balanced on a rail. This time at least the rising sun was just starting to shine on him. His soft grayish brown body looked like velvet, his chest puffed out against the cold. Watching me again as I peeked out at him he made a small step sideways.
I’ve read about mourning doves and know they can fly incredibly fast and straight, but that morning he was still and silent as the sun rose, his instincts telling him things will change soon. My thought was to write a poem for him: the tiny bones of his ribcage that create the space for air to pass through as he practices his call to find the mate that hasn’t arrived yet and has no awareness that he is on this balcony, calling to the setting sun.
To me, every small living thing represents this kind of mystery and majesty. A whole complex life that we can observe and document but really only guess as to what it feels like to live it.
