Nine out of ten times, the doves in our backyard will face east. I don’t know why, but I’ll speculate.

Okay, so our doves are spies, shapeshifters enlisted by Google Earth to peek inside our house from power lines. As a side hustle, they also conduct aerial recon for the local groundhogs, hares, raccoons, cats, squirrels and skunks who pay them handsomely in acorns, flower buds and parsley to scout for humans while they raid our backyard and waste bins like drunken Norsemen.

Doves have no peripheral vision, which is how they can lock eyes on a mark like nobody’s business, and why they make up the majority of board members at Stakeouts ‘r’ Us. I bet it’s what also makes them elite monogamists, typically committing to one mate their entire lives. They couldn’t look at another dove romantically even if they wanted to.

They use their eyes to warn of potential danger. When they squint, it signals humans are afoot. That’s how the local wildlife knows it’s safe to come out. Still, raccoons are notorious for mistaking squints for winks and crossing paths with humans more than they’d care to, ergo the black eyes.

Doves absorb information visually in uncanny detail. They remember people and faces, which makes them smarter than pigeons (well, okay, so doves don’t know to use Earth’s magnetic field to get around), and we know they eat way cleaner. Hence why we buy “Dove” soap and not “Pigeon” soap.

I like that our doves face east, that they face us. If for no other reason than when they coo, I pretend it’s an act of contrition for facilitating eating, sleeping and shitting on our property rent-free. A redemptive musical mea culpa for our ears only.

Then I remember doves are purveyors of hope, and surmise the real reason they face east is simply because they prefer beginnings, like the sunrise, and are happiest with their backs turned on endings.