Sunday, January 6, 2008

Nothing Says Sunday Like a Mourning Dove

Today I took my daily romp around the yard. As I took a little time to explore some roses under the fig tree, I happened to catch a glimpse above me of whipcream colored feathers beneath fanned out pinkish gray brown feathers. There, sitting all fluffed out about seven feet above my head, a dove peered down at me. She had been sitting above me the whole time. Her silent eyes darted back and forth at me suspiciously. I paused and tipped my head to her and she tipped her beak back. I left her and her makeshift nesting spot undisturbed on the curled bark of a decaying gray branch.

There's something quite special to hearing the coo coo of a dove as she carries on a conversation with the storm clouds rolling in from the North.

As I trotted back inside I heard a faint coo and a flutter of wings. Thinking I had spooked her, I glanced back at the fig tree. Still resting in the same spot, she now cuddled with her companion to stay warm.

Yes, nothing says Sunday like a Mourning Dove.

Bark at you later,
PJ the dog blogging dog :-)