Mourning Dove

Day 167: A friend recently asked me if I could possibly be as alert to the sounds of Nature as I think I am. I assured him that yes, I most definitely was, and even more keen to respond to the absence of natural sounds when such a rare event takes place because it startles me into immediate attention. Even through my double-pane windows, I hear the constant chorus of voices in my yard, the full melodic range from the throaty basses of the Ravens to the chipping sopranos of the Goldfinches and Chickadees (hummers don't count...they're off the chart). One of the most enjoyable tones to my ear comes from a member of the pigeon family, surprisingly: Zenaida macroura, the Mourning Dove. This robin-sized bird's mellow contralto coos don't inspire me to race at the window shouting, "Get outta here, you blankety-blank pigeons!" like the similar call of the Band-Tailed does. No, when I hear the Mourning Dove, I sit perfectly still so that the bird will not take flight. If I can get a glimpse of soft grey-brown feathers or take note of the black markings on the wing without disrupting my visitor, I count it as a bonus to the performance of one of Nature's most soothing melodies in the theater of my yard.