rule of the pigeon

Something I have noticed and grown to love: the roaming flocks of pigeons that circle the city. They swerve and float in loose ever-expanding circles, rising and falling according to rules unseen to us below but completely understood by all members of the flock. Of one mind, birds so easily overlooked, reviled even, on the ground are making air shows of the afternoon and evening in Brooklyn.

Out walking, it’s easy to look straight ahead or even down. But look up: They might be there, circling a steeple, grazing the treetops of a park, observing a plaza downtown. Today, a flock appeared as dots on the cold blue sky, much higher up than normal. At first I thought it was something else. But no, this was a pigeon flock that had spiraled higher and higher, until the city lay far below in grids of gray and green and flying steel.

Down here, walk past the pigeon and his lowly brothers and sisters as they peck and preen and chase each other. Walk past, but then look up. Too many to ever count, foulers of ledges and statues, ubiquitous unseen creatures, these eternal denizens of New York know how to rise up. Because of that, they belong here, maybe even moreso than most of us, confined to and thus obsessed with pecking the ground.