The Pigeon's View

Note: This simple, short story summarizes how Allison imagined a pigeon would see the pandemic. She used many facts from the coronavirus shutdown. Inspired from the natural intelligence of pigeons, a pigeon that lived in near her home that she used to feed during the pandemic, and a tree near her home that would always have many birds chirping inside it.

As a pigeon in New York City, my life was good at first. I always got the food I needed--usually from the little old women who perched on park benches, scattering crumbs to ravenous birds--was popular at the pigeon-meetings at the nearby town tree (I was one of the elective town-speakers. Unfortunately, we had to share with the Sparrow Commitee), and had a large family.

But nine months after I turned five years old and started gathering food for retirement when I could no longer march self-importantly up to the largest branch in the town tree and scream my lungs out, the longlegs suddenly vanished. I was stunned. There were no pigeon feeders, no longlegs to get bread from. One day the streets were bustling with longlegs, running, walking, biking, driving in those noisy monster-like things that roared down the road, little kids' exultant, shrill cries piercing the gas-fouled air, and everyone rushing exasperatedly to get to one place or another; and then the next, the numbers started to detoriorate. Gone were the lively jam-packed streets with longlegs milling about, harried looks on over half of their faces. Gone were the monster-like things that tooted rudely whenever a pigeon pecked at some seeds left on the road--the rudity--and flattened at least several pigeons to death every year. Gone were the smiling little old ladies who sat on the park benches, under shady trees, gossiping happily about their lives while they threw bread to large crowds of cheering pigeons (while seeming oblivious to our joy at the little feast. Well, don't tell me you can't tell a pigeon shriek when you hear it. For some reason, the translator pigeons who are working hard to learn to decipher the odd garbled longleg noises say that they think we always make low, tickly, throaty cooing noises. Absolutely not).

The vast, chattering mass of people clogging the streets was reduced next morning to a slow, tiny trickle. It was lucky if, like, three or four people wandered around in an hour. Everyone rushed, but not with the usual look that told me that they were late for some mundane work day. A look that told me they feared for their lives. Everyone remained apart, casting wary looks at the others, in the rare occasion where someone was on the same street. And they all wore paper coverings over their nose and mouth.

Why would the longlegs want to suddenly hide their noses and mouths?

All the other pigeons were equally confused. What happened? How could a bustling city be subdued, with fear hanging heavy, like musty dust before thunder, in the air, over one precarious night?

Some pigeons saw longlegs in their homes, but rarely did they come out. Scared? I thought. I am ashamed to admit that I speculated that in a somewhat mocking manner (Can you blame me when longlegs think we only speak in those atrocious low coos?).

One she-pigeon knew the answer. Martha, a wizened medicine-pigeon, seemed to understand what was happening.

“Something is scaring the longlegs,” she said, her voice cracked with age and apprehension. “When longlegs are frightened, they hide.”

“What could it be?” I asked, gently. Martha was near her time, but as a town-speaker, I knew about all the valuable contributions she'd made to the community of District 2. She had great wisdom etched into every emaciated shriveled feather on her face.

“I’m...not sure. If I know, I’ll talk to you.”

“Please do.”

After that, since no one seemed to know the answer, I searched for it myself, but found nothing. All the pigeons were getting thinner, because much of our food came either directly from leftover scraps or bird-feeder bread, and with the disappearance of longlegs, our food gradually decreased too, and it became more and more difficult to obtain prey. We didn't rely much on the longlegs, but mostly their activities indirectly affected our food supplies. We were all starving, and pigeon-fights started to break out among us for food.

One hazy morning, I woke up feeling particularly ravenous. I slowly picked my way out of the lot, and raised my head to the glaring sunlight. It beat mercilessly down upon me, driving little hot daggers into my plumage. That just made my hunger worse. I lived, with some of my other relatives, in a small, vacant parking lot just near the park. The criss-cross of pipes and poles on the ceiling made pretty comfortable beds. The place offered shelter and warmth, but not food. The red berries that lived on the nearby trees had long been pecked off. My stomach complained with a loud belch. I shivered, despite the warmth. My vision slid out of focus, slipping sideways and back again. I closed my eyes to steady myself as I tittered. I sighed. The only things left were the occasional bugs, and the new seeds that sprouted from bushes and leaves (we pigeons often fought desperately over them). Sometimes, there'd be a carcass of a rat or something, and we'd devour it. We weren't above scavenging. We even picked through the longleg trash. Survival over dignity.

I took to the air clumsily, and soared above the city, willing food to come.

As I flew, I tried to imagine what it would be like for the little longlegs, shut away in their own homes. I banished that thought angrily. Being trapped in a little apartment was nothing compared to a lack of food. The attendence at the pigeon-meetings had suffered, as half the birds were too weak to fly off. It was my job, as a town-speaker, to visit the tracked pigeon residencies and see the situation. It was dire; but the worst thing was that I didn't know what to do.

Suddenly, I stiffened with anticipation. I could feel something calling me. The lovely aroma wafted through the air, sharp as a pigeon call, begging, begging to be eaten...food! Where was it?

I swiveled my head around wildly 360-degrees, and saw it, vision pinning on one little window. One little reddish squat apartment. One of the balconies had a bird feeder.

I swooped down eagerly, and nipped onto the railing of the balcony, and inspected the grains in it. Rice! I had to smile. Rice was an energy-sustaining food, just what we needed. I prepared to honk my pigeon call to summon all the other pigeons. But something paused me.

A longleg-girl. She was peeking at me through the window. A mane of dark hair tumbled down to her back, but other than that, she had no feathers. Her dark eyes stared at me, somewhat hollowed. I stiffened, but this time warily, even though there was at least two inches of thick muffling glass between us. I prepared my wings for sudden flight. If the longleg child made any move toward me…

She watched me for a long time, but did not move towards me, as if sensing my wish to keep distance.

So, I carefully grabbed some rice and swallowed from the bird-feeder. She made no move to stop me, so I took more. It was more than I had for days. I could feel the life rushing back to me. The longleg girl kept staring at me; it felt creepy. But I could sense she liked me.

Suddenly, a loud BANG! sent me rocketing upward. The bang followed with more bangs. I flew down. The girl was pounding a drum and other longlegs had appeared at the window. They were banging drums too. I looked around. Many other windows had opened, and all the longlegs were sticking their heads out and banging drums as well. Shouting nonsensically.

I shakily left.

But every day, I returned. And slowly, when I grew more familiar, I brought other pigeons along. The girl always banged a drum (it's generous to call it a drum, it was really a piece of metal with a papery kind of substance and some sticks), while yelling, “Thank you, doctors!” I grew accustomed.

Two months after that, I asked Martha, “Why do longlegs bang drums?”

She looked more shriveled than ever. I felt a wave of pity transfer from me to her as she spoke, her voice creakier than when I'd last saw her. “They are amidst a virus. They bang the drums to cheer on the medicine-longlegs, and themselves. Millions of them die." She turned to look at me, her eyes piercing. "But they are strong. They will overcome it." She ruffled her feathers, crumbling against the wall. Her eyes were tired, her pupils looked as if they were dilated. She shuddered as the breaths rattled in and out of her, and the strength slowly seeped from her body onto the ground. "So will we," she uttered, as she closed her eyes one last time.