A few weeks ago, having no where that I needed to go or nothing important to do, I spent the morning in my own backyard.  I photographed a few of the birds and butterflies that visit the yard on a regular basis.  Nothing spectacular, just the normal visitors.  Among my subjects was a lone Mourning Dove.  I enjoyed making pictures of it’s soft gentle eyes and seemingly plump body.  Eventually another distant dove gave out it’s “mournful” call and my subject departed.  The doves in the area were courting again and soon they would have their second brood of babies.  The call brought back memories.

I was eight years old, and I lay in bed just after sunrise. It was summer time and there was no need to arise at such an early hour.  My window was open and I could see that hot and cold had mixed during the quiet night and had produced both fog and an equally quiet morning.  Quiet that is except for the call of the Mourning Dove.   A lonely sound but a beautiful song!  I finally arose and found my way outside just in time to watch the rising sun fight it’s way through the Lake Michigan fog.  Memories of mornings like that later drove me to photograph foggy sunrises across much of America.  As the fog lifted the morning’s new clarity revealed a lone Mourning Dove calling for a mate.

I never forgot that morning and all of these years (or centuries) later every time I hear the call of the dove, I get nostalgic for those summer days when an eight year old boy could dream while wide awake. Lying in bed and wondering who was singing the mournful, yet beautiful blues outside my window.

Below are a few images of my most recent Mourning Dove.

Wayne Nelson

A time to sleep