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29 Evicting the Mourning Doves They were clearly mated for life. They hung around a few days, enough time for me to speculate which potted plant they’d choose for nesting. If it turned out to be the cascading succulent, my favorite, would I be afraid they’d stifle it with their bits of string and trash. Now that I had memorized their song and named them mourning doves, would I rage, would I turn them out. Would I coldly spill their nest on the ground. Suddenly they were gone. I will have to mourn alone. I will have to batter the air with my arms and kick the impacted soil until it opens. I will have to buy a coffin. I will have to make arrangements. I will not be able to imitate their song in my throat. I will have to form words. I will have to choose burial clothes. I will have to forego flight and symmetry and the harboring of nests. I will have to wait for spring in a different year, and without you. ...

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