* The Pigeon Feb 2, 2016
I woke to the strangest sound
A wild, close cry
“GAROONK
GARRONK"
Clear, loud - not a dream.
Out of my fast sleep, quickly -
I woke.
The dog sat up.
A pigeon on the sill
Just inside my window,
No, not outside, but in -
On the seventeenth floor of our building
Behind the carved Chinese trunk I bought when I was twenty
In a thrift shop on Third Avenue.
“GAROONK” a very un-pigeony cry.
An ordinary pigeon - the grey ,white and black type -
The kind you see swarming on the streets, in the park.
In any city, any part of the world. Every day
But not here;
Not in my room.
Looking huge - much bigger than it looked outside
On my window sill
Under the shade I lowered last night before we went to bed -
Staring, with those round black eyes,
into a strange dark box -of -a -place
It couldn’t possibly fathom.
Confusion, fear.
What kind of fear does a pigeon feel?
Is it like mine?
Very slowly
With my eye on the bird,
I pushed the covers back,
Stepped out of bed,
Moved toward the window
Lifted the shade,
Hoping -
That the bird would sense a familiar breeze
(from the opened casement window
It must have entered from,)
Would pigeon-toe down the sill,
Find the doorway in the window
to its outside world.
Step out and fly?
But no.
As I slowly, oh, so slowly,( lifted) tilted the shade,
It took off
Swooped over the bed
Across the darkened room
And then screaming in my head -
“No !”
Don’t crash into the wall …
Not into the bathroom! Don’t head down the hall,
It must have heard my panic
It ’swerved and rounded back to the light -
To that six or seven inches of sunshine showing itself (hope)
Beneath the shade,
Beyond the window.
It flung itself at the glass -
It’s beak battering it ,
I’s head jolted with each violent thrust -
These were casement windows,
Opening like a door…
I could not just open the window where he pecked
(How I wished I could!)
“No! …”This time my screams were loud)
No….it’s glass! It’s not what you think !.
Don’t ! No! ”You’ll get hurt!
When I should have murmured at it, luring it with a song.
On my Chinese chest , a pillow case;
YES ! (White, obvious.)
I edged up on the bird.
Did it even know I was there?
I thought it might fly…but no he stayed, rapping at the pane.
Knowing, wanting that light.
It was heavier than I thought it could be-
Birds are supposed to be light, with hollow bones,
It was heavy; round,and firm in my hands., a cantaloup
What is it like to never have been held, touched - and suddenly - this.?
A wing escaped, All flailing panic,
I moved slowly - very slowly -
The wing thrashed the air.-
Slowly
Toward the opened window -
The wing slapped my arm,
A brushing against my skin.
I thought - ‘Disease’.
The pillow case fluttered to the floor
It was not far.
Thank God,
And the window was opened just enough
For me to hold him out into the empty space
Had he broken his wing?
All that flapping, beating…
But I
Let go.
He opened his wings , plunged (down down, down, down,)
“No!”
Then around and up, his wings catching a breeze -
Soaring wings. Flying bird
I watched him get smaller and smaller
Over the brownstones on 91st Street
And then disappear.
“He went home to the sky.” I told the dog .
Then went to wash my hands.
Over and over again.
She stayed at the window for quite a long time,
watching. Waiting?
After all, a pigeon had visited for five minutes or so.
What did the dog think?
