PIGEON

Ashli Giles

A pigeon slammed into my kitchen window. Gave me a right start, too. The dogs barked and howled with wild alert, but I found myself staring at the imprint it left behind.
       Messy. Unsymmetrical. Mangled. I traced the head’s shape printed on the pane with my finger. Not that I’d ever run into a window before, but I imagined it would hurt.
       It had flown away, no problem. That bewildered me. I pressed my head and nose on the glass, steam manifesting as I breathed. I retracted, saw my own mark merging the body, and with sudden gusto threw my face forward.
        But I stopped before the collision. Instinct, I think. I knew there was glass there, but did the pigeon know? Obviously not, for who would willingly slam themselves into glass?
        I tried again, to imagine myself a clueless, air-headed pigeon. I failed to even get close. But I could see the other side, my winter-ridden, dirtied patio, the glass an almost invisible barrier.
        Then I realised. The pigeon had a destination in mind and did not see an obstacle in its way. Bam, it had crashed into the glass. If I had not known glass was there, would I have done the same?
       But despite its pain and embarrassment, it had flown off, undeterred, off to some other location.
       I walked to the back door, opened it then watched as my dogs dashed into the garden. I stepped out, feeling the fresh air upon my face. As I walked through my garden, I thought of the poor pigeon and where it had gone to. Sometimes, I still do.