For the Birds

I cannot say if this is true of all doves, or if perhaps it is something particular to the doves that reside in my hometown, but either way, I still find it odd. For unlike other members of the natural world that occasionally find themselves face to hood with an oncoming automobile, the greater dove population of Montrose county will more often than not fly directly at the grill of a muddy F1-50. Other, perhaps more highly developed creatures, like cats and skunks will run and/or waddle like hell when the prospect of fast approaching death looks them squarely in over-pronounced, red eyes. (Indeed I sometimes wonder which of these reactions is more human--or, at least, ought to be more human...Should a person flee when the bright lights of the inevitable shine mercilessly down upon them? Or, like the Colorado dove, should mankind take a hint and learn to steer into the oncoming doom, tail-feather to the wind, having achieved Nirvana through the electric charge from the nearby phone line, fully embracing the splatter that is to come?)

As I said before, I have not really witnessed this kamikaze-like behavior in the doves of say, Seattle or Denver. Nor have I noted such species as the stately Robin, petite Finch, or elusive Lark Bunting acting in a similar manner. Considering that these are all songbirds of one sort or another, one could assume, I suppose, that the local dove population is awash with envy due to its less than attractive plumage or its inability to entertain its neighbors with songs so sweet and melodious as that of the Rockin Robin.

Or, perhaps just as likely, it is not so much the other kids on the playground that drive the dove to demonstrations of dive-bombing, but rather it is the playground itself. For in all honesty, the town in which these seemingly-suicidal doves live and move and have their tragically short being is not the most ideal location, be ye dove or be ye, well, dead. The mountainous/desert climate of this area does not yield an abundance of sustenance in the seed and fruit departments, and even if it did, dove are not exactly territorial when it comes to claiming their slice of the cherry pie. And while I don't profess to be an authority on all things avian, I imagine that the social lives of small town Colorado Columbidae are somewhat similar to those of poodles in the dog world. Sure, in a city like New York or L.A. doves and pigeons, like poodles, have a prescribed roll and a comfortable (if not always respected) place in society. But far from the cathedrals or trash cans or padded purses of metropolitan living it seems that ugly birds--like ugly, puffball dogs--lose their sense of identity and purpose in life in much the same way humans can, and so often do.

Maybe the doves suffer from more than disproportionately small heads (hence the tiny brains.) Maybe years of being picked on for not being brightly colored or gifted singers or particularly sturdy nest-builders finally gets to each dove in its turn and it feels like its only recourse is to wait on that yellow line and pray for a sporty little Subaru to save it from itself.

Or maybe that isn't it at all, and these rats with wings are not to be pitied, but admired.
Perhaps they are the thrill seekers, risk-takers, and Evel Knievel wannabes of the Animalia--Chordata--Aves world, choosing to express what they might lack in intellect and glittering high notes through acts of sheer, ah-hem, pluck. Maybe waiting directly in the path of oncoming vehicles provides these delicate creatures with an adrenaline rush the likes of which humanity can never know. Maybe a panel of Simon Cowell-like Thrush watch from a nearby fence-post, prepared to judge and condemn a failed half-nelson with a twist or praise a spur of the moment triple tail loop. It could be that, like warriors of old, it is only the bravest and most bloodied combatant who gets the girl when the credits roll.

Maybe the sight and smell of millions of insects, fresh caught, filleted and cooking in the summer heat is so appetizing that they simply cannot resist a lure so sweet...like jumping out a plane in the event someone threw a Klondike bar to earth from a hight of 40,000 feet. What we'd all do for love of a few calories, right?

Or, perhaps it is simply that, like the people driving the cars that hit them, these gentle symbols of peace are merely trying to get from point A to point B in this life. Maybe they are trying to promote gentleness and harmony by never raising their voice to anyone, doing no more or less than the universe ever asked of them since time began and they first brought hope to humanity by discovering the source of a truly great martini. Maybe each dove is a martyr--an offering and a prayer given on behalf of mankind as if the dirt road were a temple and the the hood of a Toyota were a holy alter. Perhaps when the end comes, and their large eyes widen all the more in death, Solomon would still declare them beautiful, though they weep for him even as they shatter like clay upon the ground.

Maybe there really is more to a dove than what meets the undercarriage?