Pigeons

Lying here, thinking what I’d give to be in that bed.

What’s that? Here comes the flock. The kit? The loft? The passel? The flock will do.

It’s been just over a week. For the life of me…. why was I thinking about pigeons?

I see them every day. I walk past them every day. They gather in loose little committees on sidewalks, convene on rooftops, and patrol lunchtime patios with the confidence of seasoned opportunists. More than once, one has attempted to share my lunch, an ambitious act, considering that lunch is a buffalo chicken salad or an Asian chopped salad, both of which I would presume offer up flavors surprising to the uninitiated palate.

Perhaps pigeons are not picky.

In fact, pigeons will eat almost anything remotely edible: seeds, grains, berries, the half of a sandwich dropped in the parking lot on the way into work. Their digestive systems are admirably democratic.

I have never eaten pigeon.

I do, however, have a friend (though “friend” is generous, and “acquaintance” is more faithful to the facts) who lives on one of the oldest communes in the United States. Some years ago, they hosted a foraged local organic supper on their farm, the sort of meal announced with reverence and served on mismatched pottery under string lights. At this meal, pigeon was served at table. Not imported, not specially sourced, but shot directly from the barn rafters that afternoon, which is perhaps the most honest farm-to-table story I have ever heard.

Pigeons are, by all accounts, remarkable creatures. The bird we casually dismiss as a “sky rat” is in fact descended from the wild rock dove, a cliff-dwelling bird domesticated by humans more than 5,000 years ago, making it one of our oldest avian companions. Long before text messaging, before telegrams, before the postman in his little shorts, there were pigeons: tiny feathered couriers entrusted with military intelligence, market news, Olympic results, and messages of war and love tied neatly to their legs in miniature scrolls. Some were capable of flying hundreds of miles home at speeds approaching sixty miles per hour. One could argue the pigeon was, in effect, the original wireless technology.

And intelligent, too.

Pigeons can recognize themselves in a mirror, a rare talent in the animal kingdom. They can distinguish between artistic styles, correctly sorting paintings by Pablo Picasso and Claude Monet. They can learn routes, solve problems, and navigate home across astonishing distances using a mysterious combination of landmarks, scent, and sensitivity to the Earth’s magnetic field, an internal compass more reliable than my iPhone in a Faraday cage.

And have you ever really looked at one? A pigeon, I mean. Not just glanced, really looked.

Their necks shimmer green, violet, and blue like spilled gasoline or old cathedral glass. Their plumage catches light with an iridescent sheen. They are beautiful in a way that suffers from overfamiliarity. Commonness has robbed them of wonder.

I do not remember exactly what it was about pigeons that captured my attention enough to write it down. Nor do I remember what I was trying not to think about. I guess they did the trick.

Goodnight xx