Yesterday the weather was good, well, reasonably good. I put on my garden gear, got the rake, the hoe and a small spade and started cutting the dead wood and weeding the bed at the side of the house. Above me in the tall trees there was huge commotion, flapping of wings as if large birds were fighting, pigeons perhaps, as if something calamitous had happened. As if… I don’t know. When I walked back to the garden shed to collect some secateurs a young turtle-dove sat calmly on the low wall, looked at me and carried on sitting there as if in a daze, or plain stupid. After all, cats scour our garden, although there wasn’t one around that time. The little dove sat there for the whole day; once in a while its mother screeched or flapped her wings or tutted a high piercing sound, agitated, to warn it as I walked up closer to take a good look and some pictures.
At the end of the day, before sunset it disappeared and I hoped its mother had collected it, convinced it to come off that stupid wall as it wouldn’t be safe.
This morning it sat quietly on a low and budding branch at the other end of the garden, again with its mother squawking above as I walked up close. Once more, it just sat and looked at me in a lazy kind of way but then settled down in its own cozy feathers, getting used to the world.
Spring is just around the corner and I’ve started working on my garden book, again.