My partner Hanna and I have befriended a pigeon flock near the supermarket. They fly into our hands when they see us, hungry for the buckwheat and lentils we bring. We have three favorites:
Twix is small and the only brown member of the flock. There are spots on his neck that we believed to be dirt; now we realize that they’re dashes of the shimmering purple and green that pigeon necks usually boast. As if his chestnut coat has little holes in it, and he’s an ordinary pigeon underneath.
Lily is dark grey and lightly built. She’s the most fond of us, usually the first to perch on one of our hands, even when they don’t contain treats. She’s warming up to our caresses and doesn’t mind being held close.
Tobey is white-templed and inquisitive. Like Lily, he’s just as interested in us as he is in food. He locked eyes with Hanna for a whole minute yesterday. Even as his head moved about, jerkily as any bird, those little amber eyes were fixed on hers.
Two months ago, before we knew our flock, we scarcely noticed the pigeons in our city. Now we see them everywhere. Their advanced interactions with each other and with humans charm us to no end. Love is, among many things, an uncovering power, the gift of seeing what was invisible.