Sitting here listening to the cooing of a solitary ground dove outside. The sun still below the horizon, mist on the grass and silence wrapped in slumber abides. I drift back, slowly through the mist, slowly floating backwards towards recessive years, years spent finding my way to this day, this time in my life.

I’d awaken to the cooing, a welcoming sound of dawn. The cliché Rooster crowing would echo in the distance, but my herald was always the ground dove. I’d imagine his little brown body nestled somewhere in the underbrush of the front yard, his soft feathers kissed by dampness. Nothing stirred in those minutes as I gently woke myself. The day would be waiting, sunshine most times than not, friends trying to decide on what kind of day we’d have.

I yearn at this moment for the deep gruff of a Lion. Yes, a Lion. We lived in the community behind the Zoo, and in that quiet one of the two Lions would also begin to stir. It was such a soothing combination. His deep throttle took me to the heart of my existence, the deep residue of my heritage, the dry heats of Africa and the rolling hills. I would be rocked back and forth between the birth of a new day, and the rhythms of a yesterday I hadn’t known.

Now as the dove ceases to coo, the sun clips the tops of the oak trees and I return to typing. I am here to work, not sit and reminisce of doves and lions. I am thankful for the memory, thankful for that little dove that said good morning in an otherwise typical morning at work.