March, A Cold Morning With Pigeons
A shower of fine hail has muffled the early morning. The field is cross hatched in white. The small oaks stand out in relief along the edge of the wood and pigeons have decoratively arranged themselves in all the tall trees. The only movement is the gentle fall of snow. I watch for a minute or two, noticing how the pigeons have spaced themselves out. There seems to be some ideal distance they like to keep between each other. It’s an orderly scene, identical silhouettes an identical distance apart, tracing the shapes of tall trees.
But I can’t stay and the snow melts. The gas cannons ranged along each side of this valley start up and are joined by the usual din of the day.
Later as I stare out of my studio window I watch the same pigeons flying in a no-formation formation from left to right…boom… and then back again. Their random flapping reminds me more of butterflies than birds. I look at the shapes of sky between their wings in the hope of finding a pattern. But I can’t find any rhythm in this chaotic pigeon cloud. Just a dash to the rape tops, before…. boom…. and a mad flutter away. Flutter…. boom, flutter….. boom, the daily life of a flock of pigeons in winter.