The sill of serenity brings forth flowers.
I occasionally feed the pigeons. They come to my sill in the evenings when I myself am fed. Over the past couple of years of doing this I have come to recognize a few of the regulars: there is Flappy, who flaps his wings at the window (as if trying to jump through it); there is Mohican, so called because he looks very weathered and has a mohican when it rains; and there is Howard, so called because of the stern look he almost always gives me when I catch him spying on me.
And this is the thing. In the evening, I work in my kitchen near the window when I am drawing or cutting out stencils. I also work standing up. This puts me right next to the window sill, where occasionally a lone pigeon will be found, lost in thought, regarding my efforts with curious precision. I can see them out of the corner of my eye watching me work. They are mesmerized by and large as if a child is watching television. They cock their little heads in curiosity as they regard these strange implements in my hand and what I do with them. I often wonder how they see us, when we have things in our hands (a pigeon never lifts anything except with its beak and even there it is limited as to what it can actually lift or hold). How are these extensions seen? As part of the body? As limbs? Or is there little thought going on except where food and the essential is concerned?
What I do know is that even though they might be watching television as in viewing me through a screen (the window) and being mesmerized by these strange goings on, they never watch it long enough to the point where they starve. They also watch this strange pantomime standing up. If I haven't acknowledged them and opened the window to indicate a possible feed, they won't stay there for much longer than half an hour. But during that half hour, it's pure pigeon prime time.
Howard
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