The Voice of the Turtle Dove Is Heard
In Our Land
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Even Solomon knew we need to hear a
familiar voice from time to time. And what could be more familiar than the
mournful Coo-OOO-oo-oo-oo of the bird that in our country is called the
mourning dove. In Mexico she is la paloma.
But that doesn’t mean I invited her
to stake out a homestead in the hanging planter outside my back door. The
planter itself is colorful, a traditional flat-backed, painted hanging wall
planter. I suppose Senora Paloma looked around and decided the many trees in
the courtyard looked like a low rent district in comparison to the open views
around the planter. Evidently security is not an issue. Or maybe she liked the plant
itself, a draping viney piece of greenery, the local name which translates as
“little banana” for the pods it produces. Maybe she feels like she is at a
resort.
When I noticed my patio outside my
door cluttered with twigs, I thought it strange but didn’t realize a major
construction project had begun. I grabbed my broom and swept the sticks aside. When
I reached up to water my hanging plant, with my keen analytical mind, I
“twigged” to the building materials. The top of my planter was littered with sticks,
each about six inches in length, looking like a jumble of pretzels.
Considering myself a responsible
though reluctant land-lady, I quit watering my plant. Over the next several
days the pile of sticks grew. I watched Senor bring the twigs and Senora weave
them together into a disreputable flimsy excuse for a nest. Home, sweet
uncomfortable home. Once she deemed it a finished nest, the gal planted two
eggs.
A couple weeks ago I met Theresa and
Tom, long time residents in Mexico. They live two blocks up the street. In
moments we discovered a shared interest in birds. I mentioned I wanted to find
a bird book for Mexico, preferably printed in English. They are in the States
today, hunting my book.
Here in Mazatlan are the same
ubiquitous sparrows, cheeky little creatures. And with the sidewalk café on the
corner, the fearless sparrows are well-fed. A pair of swallows lives in the
wall of the building across the street. In the winter, I see a few scruffy
crows. But the grackles, shifty-eyed disreputable crow cousins, similar in
aspect but more uptight in appearance and lacking the crow sense of humor, make
their presence heard with a screech reminiscent of fingernails pulling across an
old-fashioned blackboard. Grackles are everywhere.
Beyond those few familiar fluttering
feathered friends, is a whole world of avian creatures, all colorful, all trilling
song. I want to identify them, learn who they are. Can’t wait to get my bird book so I know what
to call this pretty little reddish orange with the sweet voice. And the larger
one, all yellow and green.
Meanwhile, each morning my pair of
doves wakes me, fills my courtyard with gentle tune. I frequently check the
maternity ward where one or the other parent sits patiently on the sticks. Soon
the eggs will hatch. Two babies with impossibly wide mouths will wait for mom
and dad to fill their gullets. I’ll provide seeds and grains.
Out of my kind heart? Absolutely not. I’m watchful, yes. I
worry my plant will die for lack of water before the babies learn to fly. As
soon as those little beasties leave the nest, I’ll dismantle every twig. I’ll
water my poor plant and nurture it back to health. Next time I find a pile of
sticks out my back doorway, I’ll put up a notice: No occupancy. Condemned.
Unsafe. Poison Plant. Not In My Back Yard. Mean Dogs. No Trespassing. Armed
with Slingshot. No parking. Go Away.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
April 23,
2015
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