The Return of the Mourning Doves
The Mourning Doves have returned to Freret Street. Rocco growls when he sees them in the rafters of my porch. Gris-Gris has learned to growl from his maestro but has a much smaller voice - disproportionately small.
At this point the doves are deciding if they want to nest here again this year. I hope they do. There is the pleasure of renewal in watching their industry and the emergence of the next generation. I will have to investigate but I do think these are the same parents who have come back year after year. I hope their kids have fond memories, as well, of the protective eaves of my roof.
Spring is returning to New Orleans. The leaves are beginning to emerge on my big American Elm. It seems that they fell only a few weeks ago and, indeed, this particular winter hardly seemed to get its feet on the ground. I was planning to visit a yarn store and get wool and a crochet needle to repair several of my old Bolivian alpaca sweaters’ unraveled bits but it may almost be time to roll them up in the mothballs for yet another season.
This afternoon, I will take a bike ride to Audubon Park. There is a small island in the lagoon where migrating birds nest on their way north. It may be early, but the activity of the mob of white herons and their friends is our own version of those National Geographic Channel documentaries. Meanwhile, I will get myself ready for early morning mournful (I couldn’t resist) coos from my straw-gathering friends.