Zenaida macroura

There is a break in the trail that I walk each morning, where the forest ends abruptly and I come out onto a landscaped roadside. At the border between trees and lawn, there is a line of azalea bushes. These bushes are the secret hiding place of a little herd of mourning doves. They coo and gurgle while scratching in the leaf litter beneath the hedge.

Each time I walk by it's the funniest thing--they don't fly away, mostly they scatter at my feet like chickens. They look so flustered; the only thing I can truly compare the experience to is the idea of coming suddenly upon a group of little old ladies in dressing caps and gowns. You can imagine their reaction, something along the lines of "Oh my! Oh DEAR! Oooh hoo hooo hoo!" Anyway, the doves consistently react this way--they jog around in little circles, hide under the azalea branches and cock their heads up at me, blinking. I'm glad I'm not a fox or other hungry beastie; nope, it's just me.

I speak of the mourning doves not only because of their startled antics, but because they are singing now, and after a quiet winter I know that spring will be here soon. I love the dove's song--plus it's fun to try to imitate (possible if you blow across your cupped hands as though your thumbs were a bottle top). Whatever the groundhog said, and however much snow we're supposed to get today (yes it's after 1am--I'm waiting up for Mr. Nuthatch), spring is on it's way. I, for one, am ready. Hibernation complete? Check.