Mourning dove (Zenaida macroura)
Solitary, quiet, the dove lingers: perhaps one of the pair that tended their nest in a nearby palm, or perhaps even their youngster, satisfied with the neighborhood and unwilling to leave.
Mornings, it comes for water. Evenings, as pigeons roost in a flurry of wings and the sun lowers toward the horizon, it reappears on my railing, content to bask in the evening’s glow until darkness compels it home. Continue reading
Few of us remember our first birthday, or even our second. Those celebrations were less for us than for our parents, joined perhaps by a few siblings or other relatives. Presents mattered less than the party itself, with its cake and ice cream, memories, smiles, and photos to share.
By our third or fourth birthday, we began to participate in our own celebrations. We asked questions: “What time was I born?” “Why did you give me this name, rather than that?” “Can I have strawberry cake this year?” Continue reading