Mona Mourning-Dove is perched on the big yew bush in the back of the yard. The yew is so big it feels more like a tree than a bush. Its many scaly barked trunks rise up creating a substantial bit of habitat for many critters. Andrew loves sneaking around in the dark shade under the branches. He feels as if he’s in a mysterious and enchanted forest. Mona though is sitting on one of the outer limbs, basking in the sunlight that filters through the leaves of the locust tree above.
Other songbirds in the upper reaches of the locust call down to her, “Mona, Mona, come and join us Mona.” She coos back in her dramatic resonant song. “No, no, thank you no. I believe I’ll stay down here,” she coos, feeling a tad embarrassed. For the truth is, Mona is what you might call a full figured lady. But she carries her weight well. And she has a long graceful neck that she will stretch out delicately now and again. Her dove gray feathers look beautiful against the deep green of the yew.
Mona, content to be only about six feet above the ground, continues her song. She has quite a repertoire. But to all except herself the songs all sound the same. None would distinguish her cooing song each evening lamenting the passing of another day from her morning song greeting the sun with hope and anticipation. “Coo coo cooocerie coo,” she sings.
“PIPE DOWN!” says the little green long-legged lady who lives one level down. She has been hearing the cooing for hours and although it is admittedly a quite pleasant cooing, she feels that it is unfairly drowning out her own song.
“Who said that?” asks Mona.
“Katydid, Katydid!” comes a chirped answer. Katy feels like much valuable news is being kept from the residents of the yard due to Mona’s drowning it out. “Let a girl get a word in edgewise will ya’ Mona? It’s not always all about you ya’ know!”
“By all means,” says Mona, her feathers only slightly ruffled.
In response, the morning news comes at a fast pace. “Who ate the aphid? Katydid! Katydid!” “Who slept in the Pearl bush? Katydid! Katydid!” “Who wore lime green pajamas? Katydid! Katydid!”
And so, as the morning news went on and on, Mona took the opportunity to tidy herself up a bit. She was fastidious to a fault; downright obsessive if truth be told.
She carefully preened and fluffed her feathers. She used her wingtips to brush her downy neck. She made certain her beak was nicely polished. The fact was, Mona was a bit phobic about untidiness. She simply couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t help it really, but a mere speck of dirt on her person could leave her frozen in terror.
2.