Field Notes––

Families Matter To Monogamous Mourning Doves

By Dottie Evans

Cooahhh, coo, coo, coo.

The plaintive “song” of the mourning dove sounds more like a sorrowful sigh than a declaration of love. Though I don’t often hear this lovely bird’s gentle song during these short January days, I can well remember spring and summer days when the ardent, courting males would repeat this cooing cry over and over again with near maddening frequency.

It is a soft, sad sound, but also insistent and effective. So effective that female mourning doves can’t resist responding –– which makes Zenaida macroura one of the most numerous species of birds in North America.

While their migrations don’t exactly darken the skies as in the case of their close relatives the now-extinct passenger pigeons, mourning doves are always in the top ten of any Audubon Christmas Count or Backyard Bird Feeder Watch.

On winter mornings, I watch a small flock fly into the yard to land beneath the feeders and mill around while scratching for seeds. But the only sound they are making these days is the whistling of wings as they land and take off.

If spring is all about pairing off and defending territory, then winter is all about joining up with friends and family, sociability, and checking out the familiar feeding spots to graze and gossip while walking around in little circles, heads bobbing.

In winter, mourning doves seem to do everything in groups. They eat together (on the ground) sleep together (safe in high roosting places) fly around together (in companionable flocks) and even go to the spa together (perched, rumps in and heads out, around the edge of the heated bird bath).

Yet, despite their gregarious tendencies, mourning doves are loyally monogamous. Come spring, mated pairs that might have become absorbed into the crowd will peel off for breeding and raising chicks.

Cooahhh, coo, coo, coo.

The singing resumes, followed by a nest-building process that is both amusing and endearing if somewhat bizarre. In fact, the haphazard way in which mourning doves construct their nests totally belies the success this species has achieved in reproducing itself.

One can only chuckle at the comical routine as the female sits at the nest site and waits for the male to fly in bearing suitable twigs. With a full beak-load, he will land squarely on her back and then proceed to “hand” her the twigs, one by one, in what must be a very awkward beak-to-beak transferal process as she weaves each twig into a loose mat.

Sometimes, she’ll choose a tree branch for the purpose, or a precarious, flat surface such as an outside window sill or exposed beam. Usually the nest is quite flimsy and thin, looking as though it might collapse or blow away at any moment. Nevertheless, two eggs are laid and both parents share the incubation and feeding duties.

Doves and pigeons alike produce a rich, nutritious substance in their gullets called pigeon milk, and the most efficient delivery method is regurgitation directly into the youngster’s gaping beak. Or the baby bird will reach inside its parent’s mouth to get the food. With only two babies to raise, the parents may achieve as many as three nesting cycles in one season, which might also explain why mourning dove populations are soaring.

Because of its peaceful personality and faithful family ways, the dove is a special symbol for many cultures. To Christians, it represents the triumph of faith over death and its image as the embodiment of purity was emblazoned on the Holy Grail. In the Jewish faith, the dove was as an acceptable substitute for the sacrificial lamb, and Mohammed considered a dove to be a messenger from God bringing him wise counsel.

As the Western symbol of peace, the white dove returns to Noah bearing an olive branch in its beak, bearing witness to the happy prospect of dry land and a safe haven at the end of 40 days and 40 nights riding out the Biblical flood.

European peasants believed that the dove’s first call of the New Year was important. If it came from above, it meant prosperity and good luck. If it came from below, bad luck would come.

All I know is that on a cold January morning when we’ve had a new snowfall, the first thing I’ve got to do is get outside and clear a spot of ground for the mourning doves to eat their breakfast. Until I do, they will sit hunched over in the lilacs in a most patient and longsuffering manner.

I don’t even need to hear that forlorn song to get the message.