Mourning dove
I woke this morning to another new bird in the mix of the morning bird chorus — a Mourning dove. In this area, the Mourning dove is a common bird, seen pecking at seeds beneath feeders or hanging out on the telephone lines. But I haven’t heard one in our grey woods for a while.
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The call of the Mourning dove gives it its name. It begins with a low question and continues in a descending series of coos.
Oh no, no, no, no, no
Dear me, me, me, me, me, me
I decided to try and capture this sound in words.
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Mourning
Melancholy
Monotonous
Sad
Solemn
Hollow, mellow
A reed, the inside walls of a bottle
An emerald bottle, buried to its neck in the sand
Breath across the mouth of a bottle
A child’s feeble attempt at a whistle
Light and shadow inside a vessel of glass
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If the call of a mourning dove were a colour it would be amethyst
If the call of a mourning dove were a sound it would be wind blowing down the stairway of a tower
If the call of a mourning dove were a taste it would be chowder, thick and left too long on the fire
If the call of a mourning dove were a touch it would be a wooden shawl, wrapped round and round until it was no longer warm but strangling
If the call of a mourning dove were a song it would be hesitant, riff-driven, repeated over and over
If the call of a mourning dove were a smell it would be the cloying perfume of lilac
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If it was a vowel, it would be ‘o’ or ‘u’ and sometimes ‘y’
If it was a consonant, it would be ‘m’, ‘n’, ‘r’, or ‘w’
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Heavy or light
Loud or soft
Tall or short
Sad or happy
Bright or dull
Sharp or dull
Nearby or distant
Solemn or joyous
Spacious or confined
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So, from all this, a poem. This is the second draft of a poem about the mourning dove which never mentions the bird except in the title.
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Mourning dove
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Zenaida macroura
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wind wakens, descends the stair
notices shadow, gaps in cladding
the hollow of the tower, breath
across the mouth of a bottle
amethyst, buried in sand
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the reed widened, a solemn song
the riff, the echo, a distant train
expands across the valley
and a child hollows her hand
shapes her lips for a kiss
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tries to whistle, her breath
a sigh, a puff to cool
the chowder, still simmers
on the fire, thick
and needing stirring
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potatoes, corn and onions
curdled cream, a woollen shawl wrapped
round and round, warmth tightened
to struggle, viscous as lilac
unable to breathe
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For other posts and poems about the Mourning dove, see https://janetims.com/2012/01/16/keeping-warm/ and https://janetims.com/2015/01/30/for-the-birds/
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Copyright 2016 Jane Tims
nichepoetryandprose 
Beautiful drawing! I really enjoy the mourning doves that flit about the branches of our pine trees and the sounds they make. Your drawing would make a lovely note card.
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Rebecca
June 30, 2016 at 3:21 pm
Hi Rebecca. Thanks. The first time I ever heard a Mourning dove I thought a sad dog had been left forgotten on a leash somewhere. They seem almost domesticated they are so easy-going. Jane
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jane tims
June 30, 2016 at 4:53 pm
[…] For Jane Tims https://janetims.com/2016/06/29/mourning-dove/ […]
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Re-Writing or Writing? 3 | rogermoorepoetdotcom
June 30, 2016 at 8:26 am
I think we could / should consider a workshop for Fictional Friends in which we take a piece like this and discuss how we move from the first to the final version. It would open up our minds to different ways of working and would help us to consider the many ways in which poetic creativity works. Let’s think about doing something like this.
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rogermoorepoet
June 29, 2016 at 9:15 am
Hi. Yes, I agree. We should talk to the rest of the group and I think they would be willing. In a couple of days my post will construct a poem for the Hermit thrush, in a similar way.
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jane tims
June 29, 2016 at 9:19 am
I look forward to reading that, Jane. Meanwhile, I’ll work on one for you … and, if you like my reworkings, that will be a base from which to negotiate with the group. We could do a joint session on a Saturday! More about this later.
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rogermoorepoet
June 29, 2016 at 9:27 am
Neat way to move from the first piece to the second piece. I appreciate seeing how other artists work. Jane. Also, in working from the original to the final, the final becomes less cryptic and so much clearer. This means you give the reader a deciphering process for other poems: directions on how to deconstruct and read backwards. Very interesting!
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rogermoorepoet
June 29, 2016 at 8:36 am
Hi Roger. Thank you. Again, the blog helps me in the creative process. Challenges me to find new metaphors for describing the natural world. The exercise of ‘if it were a colour, etc., it would be …..’ is lots of fun!
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jane tims
June 29, 2016 at 9:15 am
“amethyst, buried in sand” I love the image this evokes for me… After my mother died I had a pair of mourning doves who kept me company on the ground when I was gardening. Their presence was comforting and they made me laugh sometimes when they cocked their heads as if they were puzzled by what I was doing…
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Barbara Rodgers
June 29, 2016 at 8:26 am
I had a similar experience after Mom died … a little yellow bird came to the window trying to get in for months. Birds are a favourite part of the world for me.
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jane tims
June 29, 2016 at 9:17 am