The coo of the doves

I've been enjoying so much lately listening to the mourning doves, who become more vocal in the spring, along with all their winged brethren.

Their cooing takes me back to college and my lovely old apartment on Neil Avenue, north campus. The building, I'd put it at 1920s vintage, had an "E" footprint, with the spaces between the horizontal extensions of the letter serving as tiny courtyards, paved in stone and coolly shaded from the sidewalk. Three stories, if I recall. My apartment, a very spacious studio, was on the second floor.

Between my sophomore and junior year, I stayed on the OSU campus for summer quarter. I don't remember waking up to an alarm, though I had a job as a secretary in the anthropology department that required my presence at around 8.

But I do remember the coos of the mourning doves, serenading me as I awoke and prepared for the day.

That is the first bird call I ever paid attention to, and, though they are among the most humble and common of birds, I treasure their song, because it reminds me of a less complicated time of life (though, of course, back then, I did not realize it!)