Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Bird on a Shutter - A Short Story
Returning home at the end of the workday I was puzzled to see twigs, bits of grass, and pine needles scattered in front my door as I fumbled to get the key in the keyhole. I looked over to my neighbor’s side of the porch we shared on our ground floor condominium apartments. Swept clean as usual. “Great, now I’m going to have to sweep my side of the porch and risk being waylaid by Hyacinth for an hour of chit-chat,” I fumed to myself. I was out with the broom and in before she realized I was out there and just closing my door when I heard hers creaking open.
Next morning as I left for work the same mess greeted my eyes. “Did all this stuff blow up overnight?” Hyacinth’s side was clean and I know she doesn’t sweep that early. I quickly shook out the welcome mat and yanked the broom from the kitchen corner where I’d left it the night before and with a few swift strokes brushed the debris into the hibiscus hedge.
Lo and behold, there it was again that evening. “What’s going on,” I asked, looking around. “Coo coo coo,” came the unexpected answer, as a Mourning Dove flew over my head and alighted next to an already occupied nest atop the edge of the folds of my accordion hurricane shutters. These cute, tiny birds were fawn-colored with black spots on their backs, and pinkish-red feet and legs. Their tails were long and pointy with large white outer feathers. The present occupant, sporting a slightly bluish crown and nape, with a bit of pink on the breast, stepped out the nest and flew off with a whistling twitter whilst the new arrival stepped in. The next morning I heard the cooing again and opened the blinds to see the dandy male arrive and switch places with his mate.
This ritual continued for about two weeks until one morning I stepped out and noticed some droppings. A small bit at first but each day it grew in quantity. The chicks had hatched. A week later I got my first sight of them, their heads reaching up over the top of the nest. They made no sound. I caught Hyacinth picking up her newspaper one morning and showed off my Mourning Doves to her.
“I thought that was some kind of decoration you put up there. The bird in the nest didn’t move.” It was October and I had a harvest wreath on my door so Hyacinth assumed it was just fall decoration. I proudly explained the goings-on of my Mourning Dove family, not minding the droppings I had to clean up daily, being very careful about opening and closing the front door, and not letting the screen door slam shut.
I felt the gods had blessed me by allowing nature to grace my doorway. In the next week the mother spent less and less time brooding the chicks. I took the opportunity one day when she was not around to pull up a chair and climb up to peek into the nest. She arrived instantaneously, with a great deal of wing flapping from some watchful perch on a nearby tree. I quickly withdrew.
But time went by all too quickly. One evening I saw the mother sit on the banister of the stairs to the second-floor apartments and call to the young birds. Two weeks after hatching, the fledglings stepped out of the nest and stooped on top of the tracks of the shutters. They remained there for a couple more days as the parents continued to come around to feed and coax them. Then they were gone. I was very sad.
The following weekend I decided to take the nest down and clean the place up. They left a holy mess. Disconsolately, I brought out the broom, pail of water, and cleaning implements. Like a requiem, slowly and solemnly I cleaned the porch, the shutters, and the screens. Hyacinth came out and I told her wistfully of the doves’ departure.
“They are not gone,” she said, “they are in the bushes. Go shake the hedge, you’ll see.”
Sure enough we rustled the hibiscus and the little darlings walked out jerking their heads.
To think, for a short time I mourned my Mourning Doves.
Next morning as I left for work the same mess greeted my eyes. “Did all this stuff blow up overnight?” Hyacinth’s side was clean and I know she doesn’t sweep that early. I quickly shook out the welcome mat and yanked the broom from the kitchen corner where I’d left it the night before and with a few swift strokes brushed the debris into the hibiscus hedge.
Lo and behold, there it was again that evening. “What’s going on,” I asked, looking around. “Coo coo coo,” came the unexpected answer, as a Mourning Dove flew over my head and alighted next to an already occupied nest atop the edge of the folds of my accordion hurricane shutters. These cute, tiny birds were fawn-colored with black spots on their backs, and pinkish-red feet and legs. Their tails were long and pointy with large white outer feathers. The present occupant, sporting a slightly bluish crown and nape, with a bit of pink on the breast, stepped out the nest and flew off with a whistling twitter whilst the new arrival stepped in. The next morning I heard the cooing again and opened the blinds to see the dandy male arrive and switch places with his mate.
This ritual continued for about two weeks until one morning I stepped out and noticed some droppings. A small bit at first but each day it grew in quantity. The chicks had hatched. A week later I got my first sight of them, their heads reaching up over the top of the nest. They made no sound. I caught Hyacinth picking up her newspaper one morning and showed off my Mourning Doves to her.
“I thought that was some kind of decoration you put up there. The bird in the nest didn’t move.” It was October and I had a harvest wreath on my door so Hyacinth assumed it was just fall decoration. I proudly explained the goings-on of my Mourning Dove family, not minding the droppings I had to clean up daily, being very careful about opening and closing the front door, and not letting the screen door slam shut.
I felt the gods had blessed me by allowing nature to grace my doorway. In the next week the mother spent less and less time brooding the chicks. I took the opportunity one day when she was not around to pull up a chair and climb up to peek into the nest. She arrived instantaneously, with a great deal of wing flapping from some watchful perch on a nearby tree. I quickly withdrew.
But time went by all too quickly. One evening I saw the mother sit on the banister of the stairs to the second-floor apartments and call to the young birds. Two weeks after hatching, the fledglings stepped out of the nest and stooped on top of the tracks of the shutters. They remained there for a couple more days as the parents continued to come around to feed and coax them. Then they were gone. I was very sad.
The following weekend I decided to take the nest down and clean the place up. They left a holy mess. Disconsolately, I brought out the broom, pail of water, and cleaning implements. Like a requiem, slowly and solemnly I cleaned the porch, the shutters, and the screens. Hyacinth came out and I told her wistfully of the doves’ departure.
“They are not gone,” she said, “they are in the bushes. Go shake the hedge, you’ll see.”
Sure enough we rustled the hibiscus and the little darlings walked out jerking their heads.
To think, for a short time I mourned my Mourning Doves.
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