Silent conversations with a pigeon

There's a moment whilst I'm outside, taking in the cold air and feeding my body's dwindling nicotine addiction, in which I catch the gaze of a pigeon. It just sits there, looking at me, like it materialised out of thin air. I'm not sure when it landed there, because it certainly wasn't perched on the fence when I took my seat in the garden's smoking shelter, but the moment of pondering on when the curious little creature arrived soon escapes my fleeting, distracted mind.

Does this pigeon know the somber weighing down my shoulders? Maybe. Creatures are empathetic little things, just like us humans. Some are bigger, some smaller, all without the benefits - or the boundaries - of language and art and religion and society complicating things for them. Or, the pigeon has no idea. Truthfully, the latter is more feasible, but the idea that for a moment, this innocent feathered friend really sees me, truly, is a gentle warmth that makes this rumination somewhat less difficult to bear.

The bird doesn't move. Our eyes are locked, and it's doing this strange, somewhat cute motion, perched on top of a weathered fence that borders the odd little garden I'm sat in, like it's considering coming closer. A shuffle of its feet, a bob of its head, a ruffle of its delicate grey feathers. In turn, I gently move my cup and take a sip of water, shift my feet, and straighten my posture slightly; I want this pigeon to know I'm a friend, not a foe, if it even has such concepts. I like to think it does, because when I move, it doesn't fly away; in fact, it returns the movements, with another delicate step on the splintered wood, cocking its head at me. It feels like a silent conversation between us. An intimate, transient moment — to me, at least. To the pigeon, I'm likely just another big, confusing creature that doesn't want its time nor company. Yet, that glimmer of maybe, the notion that this bird knows exactly what I'm thinking and knows exactly who I am, is enough to hold onto.

I take another drag of my vape. Stupid things. Sweet and artificial and reminiscent of shitty teenagers blowing clouds of unsolicited candyfloss bubblegum in your face whenever you pass by them on the street. It's nice to pretend that the tacky blue stick is a cigarette; positioning it like so between my fingers, watching the cloud disperse and trying to conjure up the scent of burning tobacco to fill the void it's left in my aching, ex-smoker heart. Damn the stupid things. I really should be giving up. I wonder if the pigeon ever gets secondhand smoke (or nicotine-laced strawberry lemonade condensation). Do animals get cancer from dicks like me? It'd take a quick Google search to find the answer, but truthfully, I don't care enough to know.

I care about this pigeon though. Weirdly, I'm starting to grow quite attached to it.

It's still sat on the fence. Gazing at me with its beady little eyes; endearing, in a way. I try to silently will it to fly over - to hop down from the fence and flutter to the gravel, hop over to me and eventually find its place, perched upon my knee. Maybe if I open my posture enough and smile slightly, it'll make the differentiation between friend and foe and decide for sure that yes, this lumbering creature is a friend. A sad, slightly pathetic friend with a questionable taste in nicotine, but a friend nonetheless.

Last winter, there were four pigeons that were known to hang about this garden. Two breeding couples. This year, there's only three — since one of them was attacked by a sparrowhawk. Here, this one, single pigeon is sat, drawn to me for some inexplicable reason. Are you a widow, pigeon? I can't help but wonder if that's why it's here; maybe, it can sense how lonely I feel. Maybe, it's lonely too. I'm losing my friends. This pigeon has lost its partner. Is that why you're here? Is that why you're looking at me with those eyes? You're just sitting there, and I'm just sitting here. We're looking at each other like we know each other. Or am I just so lonely, that I'm creating this bond with you, pigeon?

Soon enough, the pigeon shifts from foot to foot on top of the fence again. I wait, eager to see if my silent conversation with the thing has got through. It seems like it's about to venture closer and bridge the gap between us, when it ruffles its feathers and takes off, flying in the opposite direction.

Goddamn. I really am alone. So long, little pigeon. It was nice not knowing you.