In the woods and fields, the residue of events we have not witnessed is there, but so often we cannot see them. The dogs know more than I do. They find the trails, know which burrows hold life, hear the near silent stir among trees that I miss until I see their heads go up, their ears tick forward, watch quietness inhabit them. But this I saw first and what followed I have never seen.
Feathers clumped in one spot mean attack from above, the raptor stooping in a dive out of limbs and sky, out of the wind already making movement above the prey so it does not see or sense the hurtling down until it is too late. These were Mourning Dove feathers, breast feathers, a few from the wing, some speckled, a grayish lavender in color. We passed by.
Coming back, from some distance away, I saw another Dove resting precisely in the middle of the jumble of feathers, its head down, not pecking, nothing of that staccato motion, but kind of turning the feathers over, its feet tucked beneath it, resting among them on the ground atop some the leavings. Doves mate for life. They raise multiple broods in a season. Both nurture the nestlings.
I cannot prove that I saw the mate of the sundered pair. One wants to avoid sentiment. One wants to see clearly, but I have never seen a Dove bend and roll feathers in such a way, nudging them, trying to make sure that as much of its body could touch them as was possible. 
