For days now, two mourning doves have been building a nest in the spruce tree outside my bedroom window. Back and forth they fly, murmuring to each other as they bring supplies to the site. I ask my husband about mourning dove nests, since he’s the bird expert in our family. “Not very good,” he says. “They’re kind of skimpy.”
Peering into the spruce branches, I see what he means. Their pile of twigs looks pretty flimsy compared with the sturdy round bowl of a robin’s nest. “They need some construction tips,” I remark but my husband only shrugs.
“It hasn’t impacted their breeding success,” he says and it’s true. And I think how many of us are born into nests that aren’t very secure. We have to figure out how to survive, how to launch ourselves from a shaky platform.
Two days later, I see a small white egg smashed on the sidewalk, directly under the nest. There must be more eggs, however, because the doves continue to flutter in and out of the branches, cooing to each other. Not all parents can provide equally well, but they want the best for their offspring.