Pigeons They mate for life They can find their way back to a nest 1300 miles away They understand the concept of time and space And, they are really quite beautiful…
Us with our paper cups of espresso Who have walked several narrow blocks Arrive At Parque De Palomas Where Old Men and Children Sitting on stucco and worn brick, feed corn crumbs to the hundreds of pigeons Who roam freely, and nest within a wall of open brick hollows made for them, enjoying the view of the bay, So much cooing and clucking
Next door the Chapel where, supposedly, A horse and rider were unable to stop during a horse race and went over the precipice, but survived do to divine intervention (Capilla del Cristo in Old San Juan)
Back in my Isla Verde home, Facing the ever-present sound of seawind and waves hitting the sand, On a small porch high enough up in the tower to escape the sand fleas and many beach birds, I have made friends with a pigeon that I like to think of as my wild pet, He has become used to my crumbs and feeding time, and tolerates me watching him feed through the sliding glass door, watching him join his flock, until I can no longer distinguish him following the winds past the Hobie lined beach then East towards Piñones
Now in the present PNW home, there are no wild pigeons I am learning to love the crows i don't know where they go at night, when they return, they follow the morning sun from the east, they don't come alone, there are two who always seem to alight together. First two vague V's coming out of thick morning fog finding landing space and check point, in the high branches of a neighbors Douglas Fir, then two V's dancing towards and among the bare branches of the back field cottonwood, bending the thin stately and mostly vertical growth, swooping down to waddle for treasures in the weeds, then settling in the branches of the two Maple trees that define my backyard.
I watch them glide into and out of focus like this waiting for them to finally hop down in the grass and snatch the fresh breadcrumbs that the winter wrens have left. Several of the winter wrens and red-breasted ones sit on the tops of the aging fence posts. in one swoop the crows eye their target food, wings out and beak already open, descend on a square of bread, clutch it in their beak without breaking stride, they are off to another high perch, with their friends this winter murder of crows
