There are two mourning doves that live in the courtyard. My desk faces them, tucked up against the big windows. In the morning, they sing soft and low. I see their shadows flit across the walls, as they land on a collection of poles, beaks turned under wings as they whisper to each other. I work long hours, and they seem to keep me company, their song a slowly familiar sound - not unlike the kids playing in the street that drifts in from the other side of the apartment. If this stretch of our lives had a name, it might be doves and children.
I do not miss those crows in Moscow, ugly in the trees, chattering from the windows on the balcony, witnessing every mis-step, noting every failure. Downstairs, they picked through the garbage no matter how sour it smelled, hopping from one leg to the next like pirates doing a jig, or maybe a man that lost his belt and his pants are falling down. Black eyes that did not blink, sharp beaks, and flying away as quickly as they appeared I never got to know them well enough to recognize one. They just became a bland wall of foul-mouthed birds that did as they pleased.
N and V planted basil seeds in a pot we bought down the street and within just a few days there are little green faces popping from the moist earth. We keep them on the tiny balcony off the bedroom, where there is barely enough space for two folding chairs and a corner of a table, a place for guests to have a smoke, maybe a place to sit with a second cup of coffee and write a book, if I ever get the chance. But not now, because there is so much to solve, so many threads to keep from unravelling, so many boxes left unchecked, to do lists growing stale, as the wind kicks up and here are the mourning doves, back to keep me company.
💞💞💞I love this