'Til The Cows Come Home

Feed The Birds

I got to the rehearsal room early last night, so I headed to the terrace to enjoy the spring air. The view from the tenth floor of the Riverside Cathedral tower is spectacular, spanning the Hudson River all the way from Jersey City clear past the George Washington Bridge.

As I watched boats navigate up and down the river, a pigeon slowly crossed the cement ledge I was leaning on, clearly unbothered my presence. I watched it scoot across the terrace ledge to the turret. It stopped, stared at the floor or the landing, then back up at the sky, marched about three feet back and forth, looked at the floor again, and repeated the whole cycle. Odd behavior, even for a pigeon. I followed its gaze to the floor.

A sad pile of motionless, rumpled feathers lay there, pigeon head obscured by wings that were at a seemingly unnatural angle. Perhaps the bird was ill and fell off of one of the gargoyles above us. Maybe it got blown off course in the gusty wind storm and hit the cathedral tower, breaking its neck and falling to the ledge. Poor thing.

I looked back up. With the dome of Grant's Tomb right behind it, the other pigeon took on the character of a sentry standing watch over his fallen companion. It was noble and touching, and I felt a pang of sympathy and respect for the normally obnoxious creatures. Maybe they weren't so bad after all.

Suddenly, the sad pile of feathers twitched. I stared in disbelief as the pigeon slowly stood up and shook its head, as if clearing a daze. The wings unfolded into a more natural shape and then it flew away. The sentry pigeon watched it flap off then turned and looked at me. I suddenly felt used and emotionally manipulated. I swear that fucking pigeon smirked before it, too, flew off into the clouded-over sunset.

Stupid ass bird. I hope it eats some Alka-Seltzer and explodes over Hoboken.