The Pigeon Who Moved In Without Asking

It started at around two in the afternoon. I was sitting on my bed, laptop open, fully intending to finally look at that Journalism listing again, very productive Tuesday planned, when something landed on the windowsill with a thump that was frankly too loud for a bird. I looked up. He looked at me. He was enormous, slate-gray, deeply puffed up against the January cold, and he had the eyes of someone who had already decided this was his window now.

I waited for him to leave. He did not leave. I made a face at him. He rearranged his feet slightly, settled deeper into his feathers, and continued staring. At some point I gave up on the laptop entirely and just... stared back. I don't know how long we were at it. Long enough that I started feeling like I was losing.

Established eye contact. He did not blink first.

Eventually I just sat there on the bed, arms crossed, watching him watch me, the Journalism tab still open and untouched behind the pigeon standoff. I have thought a lot about running lately, about structure, about what I'm actually doing with this year, and then a pigeon arrives and apparently that's the Tuesday I get instead. I'm choosing to believe it's the universe's sense of humor and not a metaphor.

The laptop did not get opened. The pigeon did not leave.

He was gone when I checked again at four. No note. No explanation. Just gone, like he'd never upended my entire afternoon. I did eventually open the course listing. But the pigeon was definitely the more memorable part of the day, and I'm not sure what that says about me.