Suburban Garden Scene

I sat there in the garden, bleary eyed, hung-over and unable to focus my mind on anything. The morning rays of the summer sun beat down on my face, coating my forehead in a thin film of sweat. I was too hot and too uncomfortable to try to read so I simply tossed my book on to the garden table and poured myself another cup of strong coffee from the pot that was keeping pleasantly warm in this uncharacteristic British heat. Turning my mind over and over I searched desperately for something to fill the void. I was empty and alone. I was bored. Gazing to the end of the garden my attention was drawn to the activities of the birds feeding from the five-day-old bread that I had tossed out for them. Alone at the peak of the bird table was a large pigeon feeding furiously on the crumbs in front of him. Either side of the table perched patiently on the garden fences were the smaller birds, a species I do not know the name of; standing, hopping, hoping, and waiting. The pigeon was having none of it. The smaller birds remained there atop their fence looking desperately and hungrily towards the bully sat upon the mountainous throne of food that he currently lorded over them.

I couldn’t handle this scene and grew irate. Who did this pigeon think he was? He was common and easily recognisable. I had never seen these smaller, suffering birds before. Where had they come from and where could they be found? The pigeon could feed happily in a train station or city centre and demonstrate its bravado by always flying out of anything’s way at the last possible moment. Just like the bankers and corporate capitalists, the pigeon was a bully and the suburbs had no place for them. Leave them for the small guys to thrive on the small crumbs.

Watching from the far end of the garden I had no idea what it was I should do about the nature scene unfolding before my eyes. My bones ached to leap up and charge. To run, to flail arms, to curse and to spit. To watch those damned pigeons fly to the sky, leaving nothing but their faeces of fear. I twitched in anticipation and gained pleasure from the knowledge of the good deed I could bestow upon the smaller, abused critters. Yet, I knew I couldn’t carry out the action. I knew it would be wrong. I knew it would be useless. I knew it would be counter-productive. How long had I been putting food out for them? How long had I been filling their bath with water? It took time. Lest we not forget that birds are wild animals. It took time to earn their trust and now they were here in my garden, unafraid of my presence and willing to eat my food. To charge now at the pigeon would be foolish. It would drive the smaller unknown species away with it and only God in Hell would know when, or if, they would ever be bold enough to trust the treats enough to return to my garden. It was a precarious situation. Here they sat, balanced on the fence as though they were balanced on my razorblade and one false move from me – one tremor of the wrist – and they would be gone forever. I love these little birds too much and so I have to be patient. There will come a time when the greedy pigeon isn’t feeding; he may even get his fill before he is capable of demolishing his mountainous throne. One day they shall feed, but for now I wait. For now I shall be content that the lord pigeon bully is a creature and still deserves food. This may be my garden, but Mother Nature still rules so I must resign to watching and gain as much pleasure from it all as I can.

So now I am stuck, sun in eyes, stirring in anger at the sight of a pigeon stealing away my best intentions and efforts to feed all birds and critters that grace my humble outdoor environment. The pigeon is proud upon his throne. It is a mass of food and from it he will grow plump and strong. Head down in the pile he plucks voraciously at the crumbs. Focussing on his actions I notice his heard jerk up suddenly and with it a crumb hurls effortlessly to the lawn. Pausing momentarily, the pigeon repeats the move before returning to its feeding. Seizing the opportunity the smaller species of bird swoop from the fence to feast upon the scraps made available upon the grass and hungrily swallow the morsel. Now staring in amazement, I realise this was no accident. Every now and again another piece of bread somersaults toward the floor and is soon collected in the beak of a feather coated, winged being.

Rubbing my tired eyes and pouring another cup of luke-warm coffee I contemplate the events unravelling before my eyes. I can’t but help to be overcome with a sense of guilt for judging the pigeon as such a bully. The lord of the bird table was as generous as a ruler could be. He shared out amongst his minions all that they could need. Who was I to judge nature? More importantly, why can’t we, as people, have the consideration to share so openly and freely with those who share our environment? It should all be so simple to live in such a harmony with our human logic and consideration. Never again shall I underestimate the intelligence of a pigeon.