When we moved to our house, we lost our doves. The mourning doves that nested in our small apartment building’s carriageway and bathed in our fountain stayed behind. I don’t think they fully grasped the “what a moving truck means” concept, and they didn’t follow us. I’ve missed them a lot. Their gentle cooing, dark eyes, and softest grey color made our deck feel like a garden nest.
We see them in our new neighborhood but our enclosed garden is, I think, too small for their habits.
On Saturday though, a pair showed up along the ivy-covered double fence we share with our neighbors. The female nestled in just outside our kitchen window and the male spent all Sunday bringing her twigs. This morning, she was in an odd, tail-flared position that, we think, meant eggs. It happened that fast. They were back.
I chased away our local gang member – well, a gang of one, but still – all afternoon. A blue jay. Much too big. The mother dove stood her ground.
Tonight though, I’m anxious that I may have ruined it.
I thought she might like some water and took a small plastic bowl out. The other times I’ve passed her by or taken A. out with her finger to her lips to remind herself to stay quiet, the dove has turned her eye our way but stayed where she was. Tonight I must have gotten too close. She startled and bolted. I’m afraid she’s gone. I’m afraid her little eggs aren’t warm and she won’t come back and they are lost. I’m afraid I was over-helping and ruined it.
I hope not.
We’ll see in the morning.
Displaced 
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