Maury, My Dove


Harvested the last few potatoes of the season as we hit the hot of true summer here in Southern California. I’ve been adopted by a Mourning Dove I call, in an instance of bland uncreativity, Maury.

Maury follows me around the garden as I putter. He moves to the closest tree and sings his beautiful, mournful song. Watches me dig, plant, compost.

He draws in enough air to fill his chest in order to sing his big songs. And I think, that’s it. That’s what it first takes to make things and give them openly–exaggerated intakes.

The Sad Sounds of the Mourning Dove


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