Thoughts on pigeons
Coo. Coo.
Fat and arrogant in London. Poor and miserable in Manhattan. Crispy and tasty in Hong Kong. Now that we don’t need their magnetic noses for letter delivery, they have become the flying rats circling our metropolises.
They are perhaps more intelligent and cultured than many of us. They can tell apart paintings by Monet and Picasso, and know that Renoir is more like Monet than Braque. (Watanabe, Sakamoto & Wakita, 1995) They even understand the music styles of Bach and Stravinsky. (Porter & Neuringer, 1984) And they certainly have no interest in whether Britney Spears is pregnant again or not.
I wonder how many among them are adventurers - flying around the world, going to study Gaudi’s cathedral in Barcelona and peck bits of Serrano ham on the street, then to the red light district of Amsterdam and giggle amid the strange fumes in the air.
What do they think of humanity? Those in New York City must have met enough kind old ladies and mean little kids, and flown above the Empire State building and into the dirtiest corner of Subway system, and observed the happenings in Central Park past midnight.
They are cynical like some of us. In Trafalgar Square, they squabble for bits of food and poop on Admiral Nelson’s head. Sometimes, like us, they are screwed by the government too.
I don’t seen them often now. Here in suburban Seattle, the streets are always clean and empty, and the lakes are guarded by gangs of ducks and gulls.