An English In Kentucky


















Thursday August 30th 2012    Tim Candler

    Maybe it was last year that a younger Dove flew into a kitchen window, and like so many flying creatures that do that sort of thing, she knocked herself senseless. The Artist tells me the Dove finally gathered her wits, staggered around for while, managed to get herself up onto the porch railing, and there she paced up and down for quite a long time.  Hardly an auspicious beginning for a Dove just starting out on the great adventure.  And it was an experience that clearly rearranged the brain cell that might have enabled her to recognize other Dove as belonging to doveliness, and cooing and the kind of behavior that makes a Dove's world a sometimes peaceful and fulfilling place to be.

     Oh certainly she can coo.  She can carry sticks, beat up on bits of string, shake the soil off roots.  She experiments with nesting materials and nest locations. She's very diligent at hunting down just the right grit for her crop.   She sits up there on the electric line in the early and late part of the day.  Mockingbirds take no notice of her, which means she is innocent.  And she likes to join my own clan, do her bit, as we do our own pottering about in the vegetable Garden.  An attempt I guess to learn from us, or maybe she wants friendship.  But when it comes to other Dove, her curiosity ceases.  And woe betide to any of her kind who try to sit next to her.  She'll stare at them, turn her back, and if they do not leave, she becomes fierce.  And I suppose that's what happens when a reflection of yourself leaves a lasting memory.  But who knows, perhaps next year, if she makes it, forgiveness might be on her calendar.

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