The mourning doves have come back to my yard. I hadn’t seen them in weeks. For much of February, a polar vortex sat on the central United States, and I didn’t see a single bird until things warmed up. The first morning above freezing I heard them coo-woo-OOOOO-ing while I was still in bed.
We first saw our house before we bought it, on a Sunday in April. We heard them coo-ing in the backyard that sunny, cool afternoon. Buying a house is a stressful and protracted stupid experience, at least it was for me in 2019. The first house we went under contractor for, we did not buy because it was sinking. The second house we nearly bought had mold on four levels. But the third house we did buy because it acted like a house should. Getting a backyard was the main reason to move from our Logan Square apartment, but I had long before stopped dreaming of the garden I planned to grow because getting the place to live was such a headache. (Shout out to home buyers in 2020 and beyond, I see you.) I can’t remember much about either of the other two houses’ yards, I think I blacked out those experiences. At this house, the cooOOOO-woooing caught my ears, and I took that as a positive sign.
From my desk, I face a window that overlooks my backyard. The yard just to the north has a tall fir tree, and a crab apple tree that’s nearing the end of its useful life. Just to the south, there is a magnolia tree. I suspect the doves live in one of them, but don’t know that for sure. The first sunny day after the vortex ended, I saw half a dozen of them congregating on my deck. All poofed up and nipping at the sunflower seeds I’d left out.
Mourning doves are close cousins to the common pigeon, the biggest difference is the feathers. The same buff and brown birds that coo and preen on my deck, are just middle class versions of the shiny, grey-green, roughed up city birds that you find at Daley Plaza. I have seen pigeons on my deck, but only very rarely and never when the doves are around. I know doves will hang out in flocks, but I don’t think they consider the pigeons part of that flock.
I don’t think ones in my yard migrate in the winter. I think they might be year-round Chicagoans. I try to keep seed out all winter, but I’m inconsistent about it, so they can’t rely on me as a food source. They have a crop in their esophagus that allows them to store sometimes thousands of seeds for later. Kind of like carrying your entire pantry around in your throat, or having really big pockets full of granola bars.
The doves hung out all afternoon, warming themselves in the cold late winter sun. I watched two of them nip and fuss at each other. Birds around the globe clean each other’s feathers and skin with their beaks. The word for this is “allopreening” but it’s not fundamentally different than when my husband asks me to scratch that spot on his back that he can’t reach himself.
Mourning doves can hatch up to 12 eggs per pair per season, which makes sense because they’re heavily predated wherever they are. They’re pretty efficient parents though. He usually takes the eggs in the morning and afternoon, she keeps them warm in the evening and all night.
Males exclusively make the coooOOOOO-woooooooing sound that I like so much. Females are much quieter. To my ears it sounds like the feeling of warm air and sunshine on your skin. The male bird is calling the females to mate. I like to think that if we could translate what they are saying to each other, that each cooooOOOOO-woo would be like a sonnet. A beautiful poem calling to his partner. I’ve been around enough human men to know it’s probably much more simple than that. I guess as long as the female doves aren’t annoyed, that’s fine. They famously mate for life, so presumably she’s used to this by now.
I’ll keep seeing them all season, they’re familiar with my yard as a hangout with a free buffet. I bet I’ll see little hatchlings soon enough.
