I heard a gentle bump against the window sill the other day. When I looked up, a Mourning Dove was peeping in at me.
The dove moved from pane to pane, stretching its neck to peek over the window frame. Could it see me? Was it looking for another dove? I don’t’ know, but it seemed that the bird was looking for a companion.
When I walked in the kitchen that morning, I wasn’t looking for a friend, just a cup of tea, which I enjoyed as I got to know my surprise visitor.
The way the bird’s purplish gray head bobbed up and down as it peered through the glass made me smile. As the dove paced back and forth on the ledge, I admired its sleek light brown body and marveled at the black markings on its back. Where else could I be this close to a Mourning Dove so I could study the wings’ detail – how the dark tips of the feathers stood up and away from its body like tiny flags in a breeze? Without this close up, I never would have seen the dove’s beautiful tail feathers fan out as it let out its breathy whistles of “woo-ooh.”
I don’t know if another dove answered my friend’s calls, but I did, in my own language. The bird probably didn’t understand me any more than I understood him or her. It didn’t matter. For a brief time, we shared each other’s company.