Window to the Soul

Yesterday, I heard the mourning dove as I stood at the kitchen sink. I looked up and gazed directly at the bird sitting on my deck railing not three feet away. I paused and studied him. He called again. That distinctive call cooooowooooowoooooo. A call I remember from childhood. A call I remember in the fields in the early mornings. A call my father taught me to recognize.

For years, I thought "mourning" was "morning" because in my memory it was a sound of the morning, and then years later I realized it was mourning as the call sounds sorrowful. It has been years since I have seen the mourning dove. Yet he came to perch yesterday.

American Indians interpret visits of wildlife, and I always pause and consider this. I do not know what his visit meant, but I would love to know. It seemed so intentional as he turned to look at me and cried again.

Could he see into my soul? I cannot help but feel he stopped by to mourn with me. Then in a moment, he was gone again.