Commuting to work can be a deeply monotonous affair, as is well known by the majority of the population. Commuters line up, shoulder to shoulder, empty soul to empty soul, packed in on their tin can of fetid heat. Those who do not work in an LEZ sit alone in their cars, Radio 2 forcing Sabrina Carpenter down their throats at 8 am, unwilling victims of the mainstream. Me? I walk with the pigeons.
The pigeon, or Columbus Polumbus, is a commonplace sight in the UK. Often associated with stealing a cold McDonald’s fry or having an unsightly gammy foot, the humble pigeon is forgotten, overshadowed by exciting alternatives: a magpie, jackdaw, robin.
Tucked into the ancient walls of Stirling’s Ancient Burgh are bundles of sad sticks. Poking out at jagged angles, they appear random. Flotsam, caught up in Scotland’s stormy weather. Peer closer – you’ll see two beady eyes, a small beak, and a fluff of feathers.
The pigeons are my friends. Rather than making awkward eye contact with a crotch-itching, sweaty-breathed, man-spreading businessman, I make eye contact with the vacant abyss of a pigeon’s brain.
Have you ever made eye contact with a pigeon? It’s a new level of connection. You look into those eyes, and nothing looks back. You stare blankly, your busy work brain trying to make sense of the void within, losing all trains of thought in the process. There’s no way to explain the overwhelming peace of a pigeon’s stare. There are galaxies in their eyes. Worlds that we can’t comprehend. Knowledge of the ancient gods, messages of the past, miles of phenomenal interdimensional travel. You can see it all, behind the pigeon’s eyes. The pigeon, in comparison, doesn’t have a clue.
I thought a way to connect with my new friends would be to bring some birdseed up the hill with me, tucked away in my bag beside my own lunch. Scattering on the ground, under their beaks, sunflower seeds and oats and a myriad of other seeds. A feast, fit for the king of birds.
They don’t notice.
Vacant eyes turn inwards, observing the thin slices of time that make up the fabric of the universe. To guardians of the quantum world, seeds are nothing compared to stars.
What a privilege to witness these small, wise souls, such a far cry from the stagnant crowds on London’s underground. What a privilege to waste some bird seed and see the next universe within a beady eye. What a privilege to walk to work, amongst alternate universes and far-off stars.
What a marvellous bird.
Featured Image Credit: Alice Pollard