The Pigeon Held Its Ground

January twenty-third. We were forty minutes into our coffees and the pigeon had not moved once.

It had been there when we sat down, a perfectly average city pigeon on the exterior ledge, maybe eight inches from the glass, doing nothing in particular. Simone noticed it first. Within five minutes she was narrating its inner life: the pigeon was tired, she decided. The pigeon had made a choice about this ledge and was not taking questions. By minute fifteen she was asking it, directly, out loud, in a coffee shop, what exactly it thought it was proving. I didn't say anything. I just took the picture.

The thing about Simone is that she commits. She does not half-notice a pigeon and move on. She locates the pigeon's emotional position relative to her own and holds a conversation with it until one of them yields. The pigeon did not yield.

the pigeon outlasted both of our coffees

We eventually did, we had to, one of us had a Tuesday session to get to, and when we stood up and put our coats on, Simone paused to tell it, sincerely, that she respected its decision.

I've been thinking about January since the beginning of it. The windowsill gap got named and closed, the bread loaf sat on the counter, the donate bags made it out the door, all of it has had this quality of things finishing quietly. And then there's a Thursday afternoon with a pigeon and a friend who argues with it in good faith, and none of that fits any category except the one where the day is just exactly what it is.

forty minutes. one pigeon. zero movement.

That one I'll take.