34 The Meadow Journal Entry: Rain Crow David B. Prather Supposedly, mourning doves mate for life, which means their instinct for courtship rituals is used only once. After that, there is only nesting or grief. Grief is an instinct, almost a punishment for loving what we cannot hold onto, no matter how hard we try. I don’t mean to question the claims of ornithologists with the word supposedly. I believe the science and observation. Bald Eagles and Mute Swans also practice monogamy. The Whooping Crane, too. And there are others that show their devotion in feathers and flight, migration and molt. This morning, one dove calls for rain, which is what my grandmother taught me, to believe in superstition, explanations of the world through fear and fantasy. Now that I am older, I feel the approach of clouds. Why don’t I sing? Why don’t I go to the door and croon for the coming storm? Plaintive. That’s another word. Especially when I turn the television on in another room to keep the house from feeling lonely. I’d be lying if I said the house was not a symbol for me. Prevarication runs in my veins. And the dove is purported to be a symbol for peace, but I haven’t seen much of that around here lately. Though I must admit the hour is still.
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