Circles of Life

It was a pitiful, yet valiant sight, watching the mourning dove fly to and from the debris on the asphalt. Twig after twig, the little male carefully chose the most suitable branches on which his true love would lay her most cherished eggs. Day by day, his wings whistled in short bursts as he carried his twigs to the top of the box containing the apartment’s fire extinguisher. 

For the next few days, I monitored the comings and goings of the two birds and skeptically examined the quality of his architecture. 

It aroused a passionate vigilance within me, witnessing in real-time the universal act of building a nest. I hesitate to admit that my investment in the doves quickly intensified to unprecedented levels. 

On eight occasions the little birds perched directly in front of my front door. I was convinced it was for an important reason. They darted their dinosaur eyes straight through the screen door and around my living room. Was I one of the chosen ones? Did they sense something special about me? I perceived their close proximity as an acknowledgment of my superiority above other humans. I could be trusted around their children, after all.

It soon became clear that I was witnessing an amateur construction attempt. This small male dove had just emerged from the airborne tornado of adolescent birdhood, feathers intact and rearing to prove himself worthy. Sadly, it seemed the exertion of flying back and forth with the burdensome weight of the twigs on his neck and beak caused within him a troubling state of delirium. On many occasions during my vigilance, I silently urged him to ditch the lumpy twigs for the softer, more comfortable twigs. I was appalled at his choices. Could he not determine the comfort of a branch based on his own experiences? After one week, I could tell he was completely done trying with his project. The end result was a scattering of sticks, laid in a haphazard oval on top of the box. It was a far cry from homely. 

This dove pair seemed ignorantly courageous in the face of human closeness, yet not entirely happy with their lot in life either. For all I knew, they were outlaws at the bidding of their peers, banished from the undersides of bridges, excluded from the safety and comfort of old sheds, ledges, overhangs, and trees. They’d been cast into the unknown world of human dwellings by their superiors.

I walked past the extinguisher on the way to my car one morning, indulging in a closeup of the nest and pitying the female dove for her mate’s inferior construction. I examined the nest, concluding that, to lay the eggs, her aim needed to be near-perfect to get directly in the center of the oval, as there was not much room to do so, nor many twigs to hold them in on either side. The small, semi-round area in the middle was all the space he’d left for her to lay her precious eggs. What could go wrong? 

Time was passing and I had only seen them once or twice since the last twig was flown to the box. The residents on my floor regularly upset the tranquil peace simply by walking past, and I was certain the lovebirds had moved on to a more suitable location because of it. Strenuous weeks of caring for the eggs were ahead, meaning frequent disturbances to the area would be most unwelcome. It was the case, though, that events had already been set in motion between the two, and time was running short before she very much needed that nest. 

One special morning, I peeked through the blinds of my front window, and my heart rate spiked to new levels. It was the first thing I saw, white as pearl and right on top of the box: A single, fresh mourning dove egg.

The area outside my apartment was quiet as I opened the screen door. Slowly approaching, I could make out small, pink details on the egg, where its translucence revealed the newly forming body of the tiny bird. 

But what was this? I sighed, looking on with unreserved disappointment as I realized the female dove had missed the mark, laying her egg just outside the perimeter of the protective oval ring set up by her mate. Now, instead of a few loose twigs to hold it back from the ledge, there was nothing blocking the egg from the five-foot drop off the extinguisher. This was not good. A Humpty-Dumpty situation was waiting to happen. For a moment, I wondered if I dared interfere. I decided firmly that I would not. They would surely perceive it as a threat. 

I continued my watch, yet didn’t see either dove for three entire days. I understood that female doves were known to lay atop their eggs for weeks before going out for food. At that point, the parents are meant to take turns warming the nest before they hatch. Absolutely none of this was occurring. 

What were they thinking? I was nearly in a state of frenzy from the events happening just outside my door. It became clear to me that it was not just the male who was entirely unprepared for this. I was witnessing an amateur mother with terrible aim desert her child to an shoddy nest. Their attempts would have been admirable had not the whole operation been doomed. There was nothing I could do about it except sit back and let nature take her course.

Sun shone for days. Next, was the rain. Then, there was wind. 

It was after a great storm. The mother’s unfortunate placement of her egg on the extinguisher box allowed unrestrained gales and gusts to take full advantage of the new life. A final windy push, a great splattering, and all was lost. Remnants of the unformed bird spread out in a gooey mess near the wall of the apartment. Something inside me broke into pieces along with that egg. It was the hope that the doves’ nesting operation would be a success, and that I would see every part of it to the end. 

Looking out my window, I was now in a more sober state than I had been during any of the previous weeks before. In a small way, I felt enriched from having such a close encounter with what is usually a covert activity among birds.

Now and then, I peered out the window to check if they would return to their first home, or if they had completely forgotten about the experience and moved on. I saw one of them reappear a week after the unfortunate storm. The bird’s head moved in tiny, jolting movements. From the way the face was angled, I could tell it was getting a good look at the nest and the rancid mess below the fire extinguisher. Other than occasionally perching on the apartment railing, the doves wasted little time mourning their loss. 

Life went back to normal. The apartment residents passed by the box, commenting humorously on the sad situation of the egg and it’s desperate, youthful parents. Now and again, other birds would appear to investigate the scene, which was beginning to accumulate dust and small cobwebs. I had reflected on the events enough to be at peace, hoping the doves never tried to build another home at this substandard location. The lack of activity outside told me they had learned their lesson. 

One bright Saturday morning, I woke up to the sun reflecting the white paint from the walls in my bedroom. It was quite beautiful and I was glad to have my own safe nest, protected from rain and wind. 

Suddenly, a distinct, familiar sound broke through the morning silence. My heart dropped a fraction, and my brow creased in curious dread. 

Rising from my bedsheets, I heard it again; the frantic whistling of mourning dove wings, outside, but in close proximity. Lifting the blinds of my bedroom window, I observed a pair of beady dinosaur eyes flicking around, prospecting the surface area of the ledge created by my bedroom AC unit.

I sighed a knowing sigh and braced myself for the storm.