From my parents house, I stroll down a dirt road (pass the eagles nest, the orca painted mailbox, the yard full of plastic flowers, and the overgrown blackberry bush) to get to a hidden duck pond. I go there to feed the mallards and sit on an old church pew, breathing in fresh air. It has always been a beautiful spot to stop, until recently when someone painted the pew a god-awful electric green. Pun definitely intended.
Today, as I threw a handful of bird seed into the air, a flock of pigeons flew down in a rush from a nearby Douglas Fir tree. They pecked at the seed, and then like a nervous twitch, flew back in a flutter to their perch above.
I watched them for quite a while and then taunted them to come down for more food. Like bombers, one-by-one they dove down for seed, regrouped on the group, and then swarmed back up to the tree. Synchronization at its best.
I have seen pigeons in urban parks, urban streets, and urban paths. I associate them with concrete fountains, Italian cafes, and aged gentlemen with Andy Capp caps and polished shoes. But I have never seen twenty-one side-by-side, perched on a branch of an old Douglas Fir tree, looking like owls. Wondrous indeed.