Category: Writers Block
It is a quiet evening, Indian summer to be exact. The sun is setting, going behind rolling white clouds. Soon, perhaps in seconds, the stars will come out, their jewl-like lights announcing the coming night.
Here, where I sit, there's no sounds of the city. No late afternoon traffic. No ambulances transporting the living and dying to hospitals, no screaming sireens from fire trucks heading to a nearby scene. Far away, I hear the barking of a dog, the mockingbird winding down from its day, and nearby, crickets sing, their purpose acute. And then, like a small choir, I hear it. The cooing of the doves. Their song is poignant, there call pregnant with emotion.
I love doves. I love their gentleness, their tenderness, their helplessness. I love their calls, some sad because they have lost a mate, some happy, protecting their young from the predators they know so well. I love their pensive calls, their soft soft wings in flight. Sometimes, if you don't really listen, they're gone before you know it.
I sometimes wonder why we can't be like them. In them there is no malice, no envy, no jealousy, no hatred, no anger. No, they don't possess the negative traits of the human race. In them, there is a certain innocence, a certain quality of acceptance. They don't question their lot in life, nor try to comprehend the moves of fate.
And I listen on, listen to the wind in nearby trees, a stream softly flowing, and the cooing of the doves. Soon, perhaps to soon, dawn will come, another day will begin. In the hustle and bustle of life, their song will be lost until another evening comes. And I will return to this place to listen to the cooing of the doves.
...seems not the song of doves is lost upon your ears and spirit too that listens..
So very gentle a writing. Beautiful
~*Thunderous MidNight*~