Pigeons

Flights of pigeons regularly fly, bombardier style, on the passages of air between our several apartment buildings. Be assured, the real pilots of America all wear feathers! Wheeling on one wing tip, they navigate Manhattan crevices so narrow and deep-of-downdraft that I gasp to see them disappear in sweeping swift obliques and right angles—only to reappear soaring back over the rooftops and into my view again and again.

But after one morning of such acrobatics, they surprised me with another side of their character, as obtuse and bewildering as their flight had been agile and effortless. A high fence runs east and west down the center of these alleys or inner courts with just enough footage on either side so that, with a little care, one can toss a fistful of cracker crumbs three stories below and not litter the neighbors’ side of the fence.

I had just done so twice when a flight of five or so pigeons swooped down and set about their breakfast without delay. Two, however, were caught on the wrong side of the fence. Not a single crumb had blown over to them and they tripped back and forth, ever faster, ever more anxious—their eyes fixed steadfastly on the feast just out of their reach. Not once but five, six, seven times these two went up and down that fence. By now, I was talking to them, and there they were, trying to squeeze their plump, feathered selves through spaces not big enough for a good-sized crabapple—“Oh Lord, don’t let them get caught in the fence!”

Suddenly, Wise Willie trips, marches down another forty feet, and finds the perfect hole. ZIP! He’s through and with driving purpose he approaches the table set before him. I looked at the lone straggler, “Oh, come on, Jeremiah, you have WINGS; you can FLY, don’t you remember?” But he doesn’t even flutter them.