Long-tail

This mourning dove (Zenaida macroura) might or might not be the same one of a pair that fed from the finch-spill of seed underneath our backyard birdfeeder this year. I don't believe they had a hatchling, so this wouldn't be him. The nest they made in our gutter lasted only until the next rain. Sadly, that was almost six weeks of time. The same pair visited once while I painted a window. This may also be an entirely different bird - individual, not species, I'm certain it's a mourning dove. You've heard them. They live everywhere in the United States. That late afternoon melancholic cooing: Òcoo-OOH, Ooo-Ooo-OooÓ. You know the one I mean. That sound of sorrow. The birds, both male and female, produce a crop milk, a regurgitation material higher in protein and fat than both cow and human mik. They produce it for three days for their hatchlings before gradually replacing it with foraged seeds. These doves are a native to the continent and have filled parts of every ecosystem. In some places, this bird is protected by local and state laws as a valuable song bird. In other states, it is hunted for game meat. Yet it remains among the ten most abundant birds in the United States. Òcoo-OOH, Ooo-Ooo-OooÓ Is it because its wings whistle in flight from its short bursts of wingbeat? They are not afraid of people, for the most part, and seem even to recognize some individuals. They suggest a friendly and peaceful nature. They are unassuming in their beauty. This one is thirty yards away on a wire in the rain. You can make out by his shape and his body movements that he is a mourning dove. But you miss the beauty of his colors and the sound of his call. Nevermind. He will be somewhere near you again tomorrow.

All the schisms are coming bare, and his enemies are leaping for opportunities. Now it's a matter of raw power and renewed manipulation. Iraq is in Civil War and Ireland seems on the brink of escalating violence and our own ghettos are shameful to behold and at the same time Hollywood and MTV exploit the deep angst that armchair oppression can hold for us. The race is not over. The battles are still well ahead. It is not the sudden explosive bursts, the smartbombs, the shock or the awe that herald final victory. It is stamina. Steady tides, intermittant winds and rains. I wonder, in darker moments on rainy Friday nights, whether a threatened Bush isn't somehow even more frightening than an assured Bush. I long to be the plaintive mourning dove today, Òcoo-OOH, Ooo-Ooo-OooÓ.