Sharing Space
Seated under a sprawling tree, on a teal metal chair at a teal metal table on a flagstone patio, the water swirling in the glass while the sun pushes through the canopy above - this is where I am when I first meet Pigeon.
My table is laden with food. There is so much. Pigeon first walks underneath my legs, surprisingly close. Pigeon launches themselves on my table, a sudden movement in the corner of my eye and then, my table partner. I shoo them away, moving my arms widely, switching to Dutch wildly, indicating I want to eat all of this on my own. Pigeon is entirely unperturbed at my attempts to dislodge them without engaging in physical contact. They must not understand Dutch. Or rather, I don't speak Pigeon.
While the soft wind curles through the patio, I write and write and eat and write and drink tea and write. I share this space with the tree in the centre and the shrubs along the edges, the bees drinking from the lavender and the other patrons drinking each other's words. A leaf falls and hides in my salad. A Robin lands on my table, but jumps to the adjacent chair when I move my body. I tut and Robin titters back. A small tuft of feathers stands upright, a tiny mohawk in their brown coat, and it is endearing. This tiny creature looking back at me, both of us trying to make sense of each other. Why do I feel such curiosity for Robin, why do I invite Dunnock closer to my table, but not Pigeon?
As I finish my food and stack the empty plates to the edge of the table, Pigeon joins me again. They look at me and my empty plates and I carefully pull my cup of tea close. I keep my movements small and we look at each other. They leave of their own accord, and I now know so much more about them.
Pigeon has gorgeous feathers, shining a deep emerald green and electric purple when Sun reflect their feathers just so. Their orange irises highlight their keen eyes, so very alert to our shared surroundings. They have one mangled foot without claws - but they move about as swift as any of the nimble Robins and Dunnocks on this patio.
Pigeon's wings sound like a sudden gust of wind, the kind that swoops through your head, that sudden sound of the world moving faster. They don't sing in response to my softening. They woosh away, suddenly, and return a heartbeat later, sitting themselves on the curved branch opposite my table. A cooing rumble ensues. We look each other in the eye. I feel we can, now. We have found a sort of understanding.
Written at the courtyard of the Commons Café at the Museum of Literature in Dublin, Ireland, on 21 June 2023.
