Every evening around suppertime, they come.

The doves.

They adore my birdbath. Sometimes three of them cram in together. I think of the ancient Roman Baths, a place to gather and socialize, to share the events of the day while washing the grime away.

One dove tends to linger longer than the others, immersed in the water, fluffed to the size of a chicken.

As if staking claim to her personal pool.

Other birds do not know what to think about it. Occasionally another will land, say, a female cardinal. She sits cautiously, eyeing the dove. After a furtive sip she flits away.

The dove stays put. Doesn’t move a feather. Rather regal.

What I find most compelling is the effect of seeing the doves, of knowing they will come.

They represent peace, of course. Even if I didn’t know this, I think they’d impart it to me. They don’t fuss. They are gentle. Peaceable. Beautiful, in their impeccably smooth, pale-sand plumage. Restful, there in the still waters.

Most often I see two together, surely a mated pair, and the carol plays in my head: On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me two turtledoves and a partridge in a pear tree.

Infinite symbolism, really. Spiritual, biblical…a sign of covenant. Of blessing.

In these days leading up to another heart surgery for my husband, when life is hitting the pause button yet again, the daily descent of doves in the evening imparts a calm I cannot fully articulate. I watch for them and they come. I refill the water for them and they savor it.

They do not know they’re between hunting seasons. It resumes here in early November.

I can’t bear to think of it, my sweet and precious birds. I didn’t even know until today that one of your collective nouns is a piteousness. To me it’s an unspeakable pity to kill such lovely and harmless creatures. So much in this world is a shattering, scattering pity.

Like the doves, none of us can know what lies ahead of us, all around us, in wait for us.

That thought was behind the closing stanza of a poem I wrote yesterday:

Yet again I cope with life on pause
redirecting my energy, because
no one can know what tomorrow will bring
only certainty that birds still sing, still sing
Come evening, a settling of doves
upon my birdbath. Oh, my loves, my loves—

Life is passing by

How I need this daily descent of doves. Their stillness, their peace.

My weary spirit rests with them in these moments and is refreshed.

See you at the baths tonight, my dears.

If you look closely you can see the female cardinal in the background, wondering if she might gather at the water, too.

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with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge