This morning, as I was typing this post, a mourning dove landed on the railing of my balcony. I watched it strut back and forth, raise its tail, shit on the iron ledge. Then it turned, looked at me a few moments, and flew off.
And I was the intruder in that little scene. That dove was doing what mourning doves have been doing for centuries. I, with my laptop computer and bottled water, am a tiny blip on the epochal map. A melting glacier. A Carolina parakeet. Great auk. Passenger pigeon.
Saint Marty is on the road to extinction, like every other living thing.
The Last Roost
by: Keith Taylor
There's a record written years later:
up in Emmett County, after months
of slaughter--50,000 a day
sent to Chicago--the passenger
pigeons rose in their last flock, circled
over Lake Michigan, terrified
of land, and finally exhausted
rested, relieved perhaps, in water.