The two adult birds were nowhere in sight, which was all part of the plan. Fred, Maurice, and I watched from the patio as we so often had in past years, Maurice serving as the cheerleader. “Go, go, go,” he whispered. The half-grown bird flapped its wings tentatively a few times. Then it suddenly lifted off, flying as far as the limb of a nearby purple plum. It stayed within the leafy protection of the tree for several minutes, flapping with more vigor as it grew bolder. Then it alighted again, flying up to the power line where its father had spent so many hours serving as a beacon. For a moment, it sat there, exposed and vulnerable, while we thought about the neighborhood hawk that sometimes swooped from the sky to grab a small bird in midair or even a caged parakeet on someone’s balcony, seizing the bird with its extended talons and feasting on it through the bars of the cage. A few tense seconds passed and then the small dove took off again, this time in full flight. Gone. “One down, one to go,”
