Good Mourning
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Early mornings here in coastal Southern California arrive with the sound of mourning doves. Sometimes they call out at other times, but always in the very early morning, when the dew is still heavy and the sun is bright but not warm. From early childhood I associate their quiet “hoo.. hoo..” with the feeling of lying awake in the morning, assembling the coming day in my head and waiting until the last moment to get out from under the warm covers and start.
Hearing them at any time makes me feel a little cold and a little tired, but also comforted by the familiar local fauna. It might be harder to wake up without them.
June 19th, 2003 at 12:40 pm
I get those around here too, in Queens. They tend to start calling at around five in the morning, and when I hear them I know I have been up for too long and should stop editing or surfing the Web or whatever and go to sleep. Occasionally one or even two will land on my air-conditioner and stare at me in that birdlike way. It’s kind of creepy but I like it.
From early childhood I associate the call of the mourning dove with days spent rambling aimlessly around Shelter Island, where my family spent part of every summer. We stayed in what had been the servant’s quarters of a stately old manor house, on a formerly grand estate that had fallen into disrepair. There were ornamental ponds overgrown with weeds and orchards that had been taken over by deer. In the midst of the hot day, invisible in the coolness of trees by some lonely road, I would suddenly hear the descending notes of a mourning dove. It always gave me a sad sort of thrill. And ever since, those notes have meant to me the peculiar sadness of childhood and the kind of beauty that emerges from stillness and decay.