Pigeons in the garden
Yesterday morning a neighbourhood cat caught a pigeon in the garden. Interrupted, he fled.
The bird remained. Bleeding, wing broken, huddling beneath a patio table. Blinking in pain.
By afternoon the pigeon was gone. The cat returned. Prowling, proud. Only blood and feathers to tell of what had happened.
This morning the bird was back. I watched through the kitchen window as it limped up the garden path, escorted by another pigeon. The other would hop a few steps, then wait, watching. Take your time, it seemed to say. I'm here.
Halfway up the path they paused, interlocked beaks. I watched their heads bob. Were they fighting? Kissing? They part.
The healthy bird hopped into the tall grass, pecked at the ground. Returned to the path with a broken acorn in its beak. They locked beaks again. Pieces of acorn rained to the ground. The healthy bird bent down, plucked them from the ground, fed them to the other, a piece at a time.
They continued their slow progress up the path. More birds gathered on the fences, either audience or guard or both.
My tea grew cold on the countertop.