Nothing reminds me of my childhood as much as the song of the mourning dove: Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo. Doves were as common as crows and noisier in the twilight hours. It always sounded not like a mournful wail but a lonely whistle – there were birds in my parents’ backyard that cried like children, but the mourning dove was the sound of wind through a flute; empty, sweet, and alone.I have discovered that I cannot write my short story without reading some more Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and possibly that I should read Frankenstein, The Island of Dr Moreau, and The Moonstone as well. This whole trying-a-different-style thing is interesting. And non-trivial. Next step: download an anthology onto the Kindle.
Now, its longing call, through the gray mist of memory, reminds me that I am no longer a child.
Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo; you have left.
Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo; you can never go back.
Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo; it is gone.
So, it will be a while (especially when the next quarter starts and, again, I drop off the face of the planet).