My father kept a flock of feral pigeons on the garage roof.
Built the cages himself. Liked to watch the parent birds
do their courtship dance, the male puffing up his neck feathers,
bowing and pirouetting in front of the female. A ritual dance
of trying to impress, emitting soft cooing notes to serenade his mate
for life. My father believed in their affection for one another.
He would pick huckleberries off the mountainside, urging fruit,
one by one, into hungry beaks. He’d steal worms
from Uncle Joe’s coffee can,
the one he kept next to the tackle box,
and then coax the pigeons to devour them, bit by bit.
My father knew a platoon of pigeons carried messages
across enemy lines at Normandy, delivering secrets to Allied forces.
In a ceremony at Buckingham Palace, these birds received medals.
Eternal gratitude for patriotism. My father paid respect
to his pigeons, solemnly saluting his flock every night
before he descended the rooftop aviary.
One night his own daddy hankered for some pigeon pie,
knowing the breast muscles make for good-eating meat.
My Nana used to serve pigeon pie at Thanksgiving, when they couldn’t afford
a turkey. She’d cook the bird up with lard and onions and chicken livers,
mushrooms if they could be found. Then stuff it all into Crisco pastry.
She’d poke holes in the crust, letting it breathe while baking.
But my father wouldn’t hear of it. He’d named these birds, every one.
They answered when he summoned them by name. So, that night,
he ascended to the roof, unhinged the cages, and set those pigeons free.
Neighbors, even those drunk on homemade moonshine,
claimed they could hear wings flapping,
even over church bells ringing.
Marianne Peel | Lexington