6:07 a.m. (sunrise three minutes earlier than yesterday). 34 degrees on the slope of Robinson Hill, 31 in the valley, wind E 2 mph. Sky: two crows in aspen patiently waiting for the sun, which blooms profoundly rose in the east, quickly draining to pastel pink, the color that ushers the crows downhill. Elsewhere, lightly overcast. Permanent streams: upper, mostly open, churning and murmuring, a joyous outpour to be further infused, compliments of the warmest day in five months; lower, still locked under winter's weight. Wetlands: iced puddles in the road, no red-winged blackbirds, which loiter along the hem of the Connecticut River and tributary deltas, waiting for higher elevation marshes to thaw. At nine-hundred feet, Coyote Hollow bides its time. Pileated on an errand—no drumming, no laughing. And, for me, no timing of pregnant pauses between drum rolls. Pond: figure-eight skating rink reappears, puddled and slushy; line coyote tracks, pockmarks compressed in soft snow, now icy moguls as surrounding snow melts.
Titmice whistling, loud and clear, truncated versions, two notes, one syllable, amid the hubbub of nuthatches and small woodpeckers. Seemingly, dismissing the joy of incipient spring—the swollen, meltwater streams, the puddled roads—dove rolls out a mournful hooooooooo. Longing for something more than a rosy sunrise, followed by an afternoon in the low sixties. A mate, perhaps? A handful of cracked corn? I listen to the owl-voiced dove, the most popular game bird in North America. Of a continental population of more approximately 350 million, about 20 million are annually harvested for less than a hotdog's worth of breast meat . . . more than the combined total of all other migratory game birds (ducks, geese, woodcocks, cranes, and so forth).
Morning doves have survival strategies: small flimsy, see-through nests, multiple clutches, speedy nestling growth, crop-milk produced in throat and regurgitated to nestlings, early fledging, overlapping nesting, reuse of flimsy, see-through nests, chicks mature and breed in three months. Flimsy, see-through nests constructed (almost) anywhere. One summer, a pair raised two chicks on the brick windowsill outside Casey and Becky's living room in Grand Junction. I'd crawl to the window, a breakfast voyeur, and watch each chick stuff its head down its mother or father's throat and sip crop milk . . . imbibing the crux of doveness.
Amid a throng of screaming jays, hooooooooo accompanies me up the driveway. In a cherry singing, chickadee squeezes feathers together and leans head back, opens bill, slightly. Then, ushers in spring.
Heard our very first 'round the marsh' calls of arriving RWBs this morning in South Sutton, NH. Reassurance. Thought of Ted Levin. Smiled.