Sweet Certainty

What a difference an Inca Dove makes.

I wrote a longish melancholy post yesterday. Even my efforts to inject hopefulness and cheer failed, and finally I deleted it. After declaring the scissor-tails were gone, I had seen two; normally this would delight, but yesterday it was the last straw. My weakness as birder and blogger weighed heavily among my other failings, and even some of my fool-proof methods (Bible-reading, a talk with Mommy) could not bring me out.

I woke up this morning with no other plan than to take my binoculars with me to the park on my way to the gym. As soon as I turned onto my street, a dove flapped three feet across the grass. This dove didn't flap like a Mourning Dove. This dove didn't even flap like a White-winged. I stopped the car.

Beautiful, low-slung body, powerful orangy legs--and, ah me! Scales all over! I had not been fooling myself this whole time. I was right about something. Anyone who has been overwhelmed with feelings that quem is not right about anything will understand what celestial balm certainty is to the soul.

The world looks different now. Maybe I'm not hopelessly wrong about everything; maybe I could mend my outlook. Maybe I'm just a case.