I used to call them 

Morning Doves, those birds

with breasts the rosy color

of dawn who coo us awake

as if to say love...

love... in the morning.

But when the book said 

Mourning Doves instead 

I noticed their ash-gray feathers,

 like shadows

on the underside

of love.

When the Dark Angel comes

let him fold us in wings

as soft as those birds',

though the speckled egg

hidden deep in his nest is death. 

Linda Pastan

Bright Wings: An Illustrated Anthology of Poems About Birds


I've always loved mourning doves for the way them seem like a fat old lady who has trouble getting off the couch. It's such a struggle to lift themselves into the air and they complain and oooof in the most charming way.