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Would he have believed me?
Wilson was a realist, a pragmatic genius. His was a short life; he died at the age of 47, worn out from his attempts to know, write about and draw North American birds. Wilson saw great changes as man tamed the wilderness he loved so. For me to be realistic, I would probably have said nothing were I to be sfent back and stand by his side in 1808 to watch the flock of Passenger Pigeons. I would have gaped with awe at the passing of four and quarter billion birds.
Sometimes I find myself talking to a Mourning Dove at my feeder; “How did you survive as the Passenger Pigeon slipped into oblivion.” The dove just pecks systematically at the small seed. What does he care or know about extinct relatives?
The doves in my yard have a lovely rosy cast to their breasts; iridescent feathers on their necks glint lilac and rosy-red in good light. There are soft gray tones in their plumages. The male Mourning Dove has more gray on his head than the female. During the breeding season, doves have a beautiful shade of blue around their eyes. This color is not from feathers but from flesh tones; it disappears immediately when they are shot.
I had a bird watching friend once who affectionately called Mourning Doves, “pin heads.” The head is small in proportion to the heavy body. So it is in all doves and pigeons, even for the Rock Dove, or domestic pigeon, that has become feral, though not wild enough to separate himself completely from humanity.
The Rock Dove was introduced for food from Europe and brought to Virginia as early as 1621. Records show that the French brought it to Novia Scotia in 1606. Like the Starling and House
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