“Fascinating.  Mourning doves, house finches and northern mockingbirds are nesting side by side in the tree outside my patio, no more than a foot between each nest.  It’s like the avian suburbs.”^[1]  That was my Facebook status update on April 2.

Thick evergreen foliage subverted my attempts to gratify a photographic jones for all three nests with parents brooding, let alone for the hatchling doves I could see feeding on crop milk.  Images taken these past weeks have shown limb and leaf and little else save the occasional shadow that might or might not be a bird.^[2]

Yet my lack of pictorial success to date would not continue.

Yesterday I stepped outside to enjoy the unending rain but instead found myself beguiled by two frowsy fledglings.  More specifically, two just-from-the-nest mourning doves (a.k.a. rain dove; Zenaida macroura).^[3]

The parents briefly watched me from their perch on the patio roof.  Being mourning doves, they worry little about people.  And I’ve been around them so much recently that they know I’m no scapegrace and that I pose no risk to the children, so they went on with their preening whilst I photographically disported with the chicks.

Deep shadows from an overcast sky coupled with the earthen and verdant colors on the ground proffered an oneiric setting for images as the two aptly colored young birds meandered about beneath the tree.  No matter my nearness to them, I did not discover the threshold for their flight response.  Instead, they glanced at me if I moved but otherwise discounted my presence.

They did keep looking up at the adults on the roof, however, as if checking to make sure Mom and Dad hadn’t vanished.  This made for more than a few delightful giggles from me each time the chicks cocked their heads to the side and stared into the falling rain with monocular intent.

They never strayed far from each other.  Where one went, the other was soon to follow.

The biggest hurdle I faced came from the patio fence itself.  The spaces between the slats are smaller than the end lens element, so clear views either meant standing up and leaning over the fence or finding that just right position through the fence where telephoto distance overcame the peripheral wood in the frame.

The fledglings eventually moved through the fence and settled on the patio, and their parents came down to join them.  All four birds napped peacefully for the afternoon.

But by sunset I mindlessly walked out there thinking they must certainly have moved back to the tree.  The parents had, yes, but the juveniles had taken position on the fence, two fist-size bundles of feathers nestled together in the dark.

Long before sunrise this morning I found both kids in the tree.  By first light the entire family had vanished.  Off to face the world…

— — — — — — — — — —

Notes:

[1] Although I often refer to this tree as “the tree of life” for all the wildlife and wonder it brings near, it has a dark side for which I call it “the tree of death.”  It historically has been a killer of bird nests.  The tree is situated against the west wall.  This makes it a prime target for the violence of spring thunderstorm-related winds, hail and heavy rain.  It was heavy rain that wiped out all of the mockingbird chicks a few years ago, one at a time washing them from the nest, then from the tree itself.  It was a few years before that when strong winds destroyed three successive mourning dove nests with eggs, the same doves trying over and over after each assault.  But the paucity of spring thunderstorms this year has provided an unexpected opportunity for birds even as it has left me wondering about the mysterious atmospheric silence.

[2] I have captured photos of the parent birds as they built their nests and as they came and went from the tree.  Capturing images of these three species is an easy thing in this area and can be done throughout the year, so those pictures did not provide the fix I was looking for from these three nests.  The fact that the nests are just above eye level and within arm’s length of me made it all the worse that I haven’t been able to find a clear view for photography.

[3] It seems most appropriate that these birds are sometimes called rain doves.  The weekend brought nothing but precipitation and cool temperatures, so discovering the fledglings yesterday in the midst of steady rain felt all the more apropos.

Amongst the cypress and pecan, hidden between the oak and sweet gum, shadowed by the cottonwood and elm, there stands a place known only to me.  Within a refuge shared with none save the creatures of the forest and lake, the rightful inhabitants who bestow upon me special consideration, I take leave of the world as I enter this realm both magical and removed.  Stepping betwixt two trees appears a mundane event, but nothing could be further from the truth.  A world lies just beyond the one we know, a landscape shrouded by limbs both ancient and new that resists the commotion of progress.  And therein I find escape.

No one but I dares enter, for no one else may know the path to and from, the path that carries my tired soul.  Troubles melt from me there like winter’s ice bathed in spring’s warm sunshine.  Even the single step that transports me sheds from my mind and heart all worry, all trouble, all concerns.  It is a bathing…a baptism.  Guardians of forever tolerate no disruption, so I think cares must be left behind to enter.  Am I thankful for that?

When the world crushes in on me and threatens to overwhelm me, I run to this place with abandon, like prey followed by predator.  In my own urgency I sometimes stumble and fall, but a gentle hand always reaches out to help me regain my footing, for that which lives outside this place envies all who enter it, and their jealousy and want can never overcome their desire to see its splendor realized.

Anxiety dares not invade this place.  It could never withstand the defenses of those who protect it.  Tempests cannot find me here.  Although the heavens rest above, the sky is forever restrained from offering anything less than its best.  Should snow fall or rains blow, time for such indulgences remains limited.  Offer what drinks you will to the earth, bathe all life in refreshing showers, and blanket the landscape in your icy best, but forget not that you too must adhere to the spirit of this place.  Its tranquility will not be violated.

Would that the inherent beauty and magic wind their way into the spirit of others.  Yet a small degree of selfishness wishes to keep it all to myself.  Perhaps nature, too, feels as I, that to welcome more interlopers would be to invite harm and discord.  Too sacred it is for such a thing, I feel.  Listening to the soft rustle of leaves and swaying of branches as trees, the still watchers, dance with gentle breezes, I know they feel what I feel, that they wish to veil this world from humanity’s prying eyes.  Fear of our kind is palpable.

So I rest my weary bones against the eldest oak who caringly offers its safe haven only to the kind, to the respectful.  I watch its brethren as they watch me.  Together, one man and nature’s bounty, we find peace and calm in each other’s company.

I stretch my legs out before me and lean back against a timeless being.  Its rough bark cradles me softly.  Quietly—so quiet, in fact, that I think I might be dreaming—quietly the tree begins weeping, a sound whose depth is felt more than heard.  Great rumbling sobs tenderly shake the ground on which I sit, and I turn, rest a hand upon its trunk, and I inquire: “Why are you sad?”

“For you,” it replies.  “My tears are not for me or my kin.  They are not for this place or the lives we protect.  They are for you, for your troubled spirit and aching heart.”

It is then I too begin to weep.  My head falls slowly until it rests against the tree’s bosom, and there my tears join with it, falling endlessly on its skin and tracing paths toward the earth.  For I feel it as well.  Setting aside my anxious thoughts when entering has always been my way.  Only now do I realize I have denied the strength of those who welcome me, the love and cradling arms that for too long have been given all but the best of me while longing to support the weakest of me.

Far off in the distance, a bird calls out.  I do not recognize its voice until it draws nearer.  Then I realize a mourning dove approaches.  It flutters overhead, flits about in the air above for a brief moment, and finally comes to rest in the branches under which I sit.  There, no more than an arm’s length away, it perches in the branches of our mutual friend, the tree, and it looks at me.  When it calls out again, the lamentation in its voice cannot be denied.

And the tree answers, “Yes, dear one, you may cry with us.  Help us carry this burden.”

[photos are of mourning doves (a.k.a. rain doves; Zenaida macroura); cross-posted on The Clade; based on something I wrote two years ago]

Afar and adrift, distant and mournful, a song familiar to me rests uncomfortably deep within, a lamentation tickling my ears until I can stand it no further.

Yet always I must listen still.

Always afar, always mournful, this sweet melody belongs to gentle souls who speak in tears from great distances both near and far.

Yet always afield do their voices sound.

Sweeter nonetheless when close afar, always afar, this soul betwixt sorrow and mine own soul, forever reaching into me to that place where memories live, regrets stand tall, sadness shines brightly, emotions run free.

Yet always I strain to hear one more chorus, one more refrain, for the essence within me needs as much.

Cooing as though life slips away or heart bleeds, what sad language passes betwixt such creatures to my soul rings of loss, of heartache, of mourning, and at all times these voices seem faraway, remote, removed, even more so in some strange way when standing within the same breath as I.

Yet always afar…

[mourning dove (Zenaida macroura)]