I lean back to rest my head against the wall. The cry continues. I am held rapt by the sound. It is neither here nor there, but beyond time and place. The sound is plaintive and nostalgic. Is it because similar calls are heard around the world, that they defy our sense of place and particularity?
I am not alone. The songbird is present, but everywhere. The call is timeless. Across continents, people hear the same songs. Evocations of the infinite...
This cry does not belong to our time alone. It belongs to All Time, to the Beginning of Time, to Creation.
I drift on its notes, and let my thoughts float beyond the tight walls of the space where I sit. Outside, the trees loom and portend the larger forests that extend in all directions. But my mind has now encircled and embraced the world, carried on the plaintive song of the Mourning Dove.