I have never found the plaintive cry of the whipporwill to be a sad and lonely one, although it cuts the night alone without reply. But it is happy, chirpy, persistant.
This morning, though, the true sadness of the mourning dove coo-cooing breaks my heart. It seems so out of place in the bright sunlit waking world. Lonely, plaintive, yes, and mournful.
I wish it would look around and see the blue of sky, the white puff of clouds, the little snow left sparkling out its life, and shut the hell up.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology