None About

There is little to hear out there, in the great expanse of rock and gravel, more wistful and plaintive than the call of the mourning dove. The crows are raucous and full of mischief. Each note of the various little song birds are as full of joy as a verbal expression can be. Coming from on high the screech of hawk is nothing short of regal and imperious. Those sounds are all outward projections. In comparison the coo who-who who of dove, quiet and pensive, would seem to convey introspection.

Rarely a ride goes by when I don't see the doves, or hear them - that whistling sound their wings make as they take hurried flight is as unmistakable as their cooing. The doves, they don't look to be anything other than what they are. In the background, not outstanding.

I rode along through the wash, passing the usual Sugar Bush, the white stalks of last years' yucca, and the yellow and purple blooms of new Spring; the sun was nearly descended - perhaps another forty-five minutes remaining of its day. In the last light I was looking for the doves; they usually perch on the chain link fence in this evening hour, sometimes singly, but more often paired. They perch on the top rail, looking away from the sun - always - waiting for, watching the night creep in on long legs. I saw not a single one. What I did see, though, was hawk and knew immediately why there were no doves about.