Mourning Doves Migration by Joan Currie

Every morning
I hear the persistent cooing
of mourning doves.

They line up on a telephone wire,
like a chorus of maidens
calling to their lovers
who have gone off to war,
fearing they won’t return.

This morning I spied
three doves outside
my kitchen window
and was taken aback
by their heavy bodies,
ferocious eyes and beaks.

Were these the same doves?

Shortly after,
I stood beneath my oak tree,
raking leaves,
when an explosion
of a hundred or so doves
burst from its branches
straight up into the air.

The sharp, metallic clatter
and whirring of wings
seemed almost sinister.
I instinctively ducked.

The flock swept up
my three doves
as it headed south
toward Texas or Mexico.

I hope the maidens
find their mates.