Then, miracle of miracles, mama returned, having somehow survived the vicious falcon attack! And, I realized, in the striking words of inventor Nikola Tesla: “I loved that pigeon as a man loves a woman.”
Yahia Lababidi
Some years ago, I found a bird egg in a flowerpot on my balcony and, shortly thereafter, went bird mad. I ended up raising generations of wild pigeons and bonding with their young. The sound of pigeons cooing became music to my ears and a kind of blessing, assuring me that all was well with the world.
According to the Quran, all creatures give thanks, mountains and trees included. As a pigeon fancier, I believe that I daily witnessed something akin to this around sunset, when my feathered friends would enter a kind of trance.
Prose fails to do this elusive state justice. Below is a poem I wrote that attempts to convey its mystery:
What the Sunset Said
Something happened as the light was dying
it wasn’t just post-coital exhalation
where the once-possessed body is used up
and all that remains is bodiless trance
Rather, it seemed they were mirroring
a preternatural stillness,
two spiritual sentinels
transfixed and somehow Other
Science calls it “twilight calibrated magnetic compass”
yet it appeared beyond mere direction-finding
more a kind of existential orientation
consolidating all they knew, and listening
with their entire being, participating
silently, in a universal hymn
until they were pulled, as out of a viscous substance,
by the hungry cry of their nearby young
to become two feral pigeons, again
with this-world considerations
parenting, foraging, keeping alive
and, dazed, they consented to their stations.
Pigeon loyalty is a remarkable thing. Witness this video of a youngster, born and raised on my balcony in the same flowerpot. When he lost both his parents, he bonded with me, deeply. Since the father had not taught the squab to fly, as they typically do when their offspring are around a month old, the young pigeon remained on my balcony, alone, until a couple of adult pigeons adopted him and taught him to fly away.
But he didn’t stay away for long: As a show of his gratitude, this sweet bird continued to visit with me on my balcony every evening at the same time (around 5 pm), unmistakably saying “thank you,” by grooming my eyebrows, beard and even nose hairs! This went on for several months and I looked forward to these precious moments with the bird every day.
One morning, I awoke to see, out of the corner of my eye, a falcon swoop down onto our balcony and carry a mama pigeon off the eggs on which she was sitting. This happened in an instant. The sky seemed to darken, and then the predator was off with his fast food. On the balcony, everywhere, the signs of a pitiable struggle: feathers all about and two unattended eggs, a day or so shy of hatching. Instinctively, I brought the eggs in, though I wasn’t exactly sure how to keep them warm. Only moments later, a terribly beautiful falcon returned, presumably looking for those eggs.
The magnificent beast was a vision of ferocity with his piercing golden eyes and sharp talons. We stared one another down for a short eternity with only the thin mosquito screen between us, exchanging what felt like hostility and respect, until the mighty predator lost interest, leaned into the sky and soared away. In that moment, I realized how protective I was of my dear pigeons whom I’d gotten to know over the past months. I felt responsible for their fate and thus guilty about having been unable to protect them.
I’ve heard it said pigeons don’t mourn, that it’s all about instinct — lose an egg or a mate, and they’ll just go find/make another. Or that wild birds don’t bond, it’s all about food.
But I witnessed the remaining feral pigeon, the father, moving slowly and listlessly all morning, clearly out of it over the loss of his mate.
I knew for sure that something was wrong when he turned down his favorite snack — raw, unsalted peanuts — and simply sat, dejected, on the ground that entire day, on the other end of the balcony from his violated nest. He just stared ahead despondently and occasionally stood up, facing me and cooing.
It was devastating to witness and I didn’t know what to do. I tried putting the eggs on a hot water bottle as their grieving papa wouldn’t acknowledge them all night. He seemed spooked by the site of the crime (our balcony flower pot-cum-nest) and wouldn’t go near it.
Eventually though, when he saw me eating, he tentatively pecked at a bit of food and, after a little while, found the energy to perch on the balcony railing so he could better scan the sky. In the meantime, I whispered encouragement to him like a madman: “That’s it, keep looking out and about. You’ll find a new mate and have more eggs.”
Then, miracle of miracles, mama returned, having somehow survived the vicious falcon attack! And, I realized, in the striking words of inventor Nikola Tesla: “I loved that pigeon as a man loves a woman.”
But all good things must come to an end and my pigeon love story was no exception. Three things put a stop to the visits from my winged friends. First, the actual woman in my life, my wife, having grown exasperated by the mess that the pigeons made, gave me an ultimatum. Then, the building we live in began to set traps on the roof to capture these gentle creatures and the pigeon hunt extended to neighbors turning in other neighbors whom they suspected of harboring the outlawed birds. Lastly, the entire city of Fort Lauderdale got in on the act and released an increased number of falcons to police the skies and protect the airport, which was only minutes away from our home.
I had no choice but to accept the empty nest, though I still leapt for joy when the occasional bird — dove, crow, or parrot — stopped by our balcony to catch its breath. The avian activity on my balcony helped ease the sting of the absent of pigeons but I was particularly thrilled when, one morning, a duck showed up on my balcony. I was surprised to learn that this type of duck, a Muscovy as it turns out, isn’t very adept at flying. So how had it arrived on our balcony on the 10th floor?
After a short, seemingly investigative visit, the shy graceful creature flew away. The next day, to my wonder and delight, I found she’d laid a large egg in that lucky, bird-friendly flower pot. I didn’t know what to do with it, and since mama was not there, I just let it be. For the next 9 days, mama duck would return, laying one egg a day and, before she flew off for the evening, presumably to the nearby cemetery where I’d seen such ducks, she would — carefully — bury her eggs, probably to keep them out of the sight of predators, covering them with this amazing, cottony/silky web.
I was on cloud nine. I’d strain daily to catch a glimpse of the swan-like duck as she flew in and out. Then, one fine day, she decided to stay and sit all day long on her family-to-be. We developed a tentative rapport, mama duck and I — she was not as friendly as the pigeons —but she’d let me spray her with a fine mist to cool her off on hot days and would then proceed to groom herself. My heart was full once again, preoccupied with making the elegant newcomer comfortable.
And then, just as suddenly and marvelously as she’d come out of the blue, she disappeared. I kept waiting and wondering, but she never returned. Had my overly-eager attentions frightened her off? Was she wounded, dead? I would never know. I was only left with the abandoned flower pot and her unattended eggs — which never hatched.
