It’s April 3rd.
Which, in New England, is supposed to mean something optimistic… like Spring.
Instead, at 6:16 AM, I’m standing in what can only be described as a meteorological shrug.
I’m out on Raymond Drive with Sophie and Sadie—two highly trained scent-detection specialists who, based on their enthusiasm, have clearly discovered either a woodland creature… or someone’s forgotten meatloaf from 2007.
The sky?
Let’s just say “overcast” doesn’t do it justice.
This wasn’t a cloud cover. This was a full atmospheric commitment.
If this cul-de-sac had a pub on the corner and a guy named Nigel walking by in a trench coat, you’d swear you were in London. The mist didn’t drift. It didn’t roll. It didn’t do anything.
It just… existed.
Like a damp, invisible roommate.
So I stop.
Because sometimes, when the world looks like this, you don’t walk—you listen.
And that’s when I hear it.
Mourning doves.
Not one. Not two.
A full-blown, surround-sound, Dolby-certified dove choir.
Two are perched overhead on the wires like conductors of this feathery orchestra. But the rest? They’re everywhere. Hidden. Layered. Echoing.
You know how mountains look when they fade into the distance?
Sharp in the front. Soft in the back. Then just whispers of shape?
That’s what this sounded like.
One dove calls.
Another answers.
Then another… and another…
Until the whole neighborhood is wrapped in this gentle, rolling, echoing lullaby that feels less like sound… and more like a conversation you weren’t invited to—but are somehow welcome in.
And for a moment, I’m not on Raymond Drive.
I’m somewhere quieter. Older. Maybe even wiser.
It’s peaceful. Almost spiritual.
I’m communing with nature.
Reflecting.
Finding my place in the universe.
I’m basically one step away from writing a book titled
“The Dove Within: A Journey to Stillness.”
So naturally, I turn to check on the girls.
Sophie and Sadie are no longer investigating.
They are sitting.
Staring.
Not casually. Not curiously.
Judging.
Hard.
Their faces say it all:
“George has stopped moving. George never stops moving. Should we be concerned?”
I take one step.
That’s all it takes.
They snap out of it instantly.
Back to business.
Full throttle.
Sniff. Patrol. Lead. Repeat.
And just like that, the moment is over.
The mist is still there.
The doves are still singing.
The girls are back to their morning mission.
And me?
Well…
Now I’m thinking about London.
And wondering if I can get this same soundtrack with better coffee.
I’d love to share my posts with you. If you subscribe, they’ll come straight to your inbox—most days, like a little note from me to you. It means a lot to know you’re reading along.
Browse my complete art portfolio and shop for prints at this link: imagesbygacioe.shop
Leave a Reply