The Mourning Dove

The Ann Arbor skyline is best experienced from the top of the North Ashley parking structure. That is, if you’re a human. A dove would rather see it from the sky.

On one such visit to the roof, my buddy Tim and I were feasting on stories when we heard a strange noise coming from the glass-encased stairwell of the parking garage…like playing cards slapping against the spokes of an old Schwinn bicycle. But the sound was big, intermittent and echoing across seven stories of concrete. We investigated.

A dove had somehow gotten itself trapped within the stairwell. What was worse, all the outside world was visible through the glass and must have seemed so inviting and accessible. But it was not. The poor bird, in spurts of panic, fluttered and flailed itself against the transparent walls until it was utterly exhausted.

Then, and only then, was I able to approach. At my advance, it again attempted to escape. But it was too tired. By now it must have felt hopeless if birds can feel hopeless. I reached out my hands and wrapped them carefully around the dove’s fragile wings and body.

It was strange to see a free bird surrender.

I carried it out of the stairwell to a place where wind replaced the walls, and I opened my hands. It paused, spread its wings and made a beeline to the tip-top of the highest building in Ann Arbor. The view must have been better from up there because other doves were already there to greet it.

The whole thing was pretty cool, having the chance as a human to rule over the birds of the air in an honorable way. But I wondered afterwards who was helping who. I wondered at the ways I was wearing myself out trying to get what I want, save myself and set myself free. And I wondered if surrender wasn’t a thing to be avoided but embraced and celebrated. I wondered what it would be like to fly after having just despaired that flying would never again be possible. And last of all, I wondered what the view was like from the sky.

Maybe someday I’ll know.

– Living Mural –
Someplace sometime
a dove within the glass
made a sound of wings
tilling air stale with echoes.
Silence.
Spilt blood against the pane,
across the sky-framed,
living mural; muted welcome;
wishing walls were wind;
willing wings will mend
in the hands of Another
the air will move again.

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