Peeps the baby pigeon
The middle of winter, no mother,
she cries for food, she cries for comfort
the plush stuffed dragon with pink wings
in her enclosure to calm her is cute but
not interacting with her, not responding
little peeps loud peeps
she is calling for food, for love, for attention
she is a baby
bird
she doesn’t know she was born a species that
people call names like rat — another who is
intelligent, affectionate, misunderstood -
she doesn’t know what happened to her mother
or maybe she does, and has nightmares
where are her brothers and sisters
she calls out, loud peeps,
I am here! I am here! Here! Here!
Someone please feed me! Someone! I’m hungry!
I am a baby and I am here in the strange place
and I can’t get my own food
she calls out, someone hear me! Feed me! Hear me!
all of the adult pigeons, in separate cages
lined up along the counter
hear her
we humans hear her down the hall
the other pigeons hear her
none are her mother, the other pigeons can’t help her
they are isolated, they are there
to heal from some other trauma
they are city birds, more likely to
be burned from hot cooking oil in an alley
than in a forest fire
these are city birds, our neighbours
our local babies, this baby
this mid-winter baby calls out, loud peeps
she calls out for food, she calls out for attention
a squab, rock dove, a mess of baby fuzz on her head
not yet the iridescent plumes of her elders
alert eyes, flappy flappy flappy fear
when I come too near
to cuddle would be wrong, and dangerous for her
to tell her everything will be ok would be untrue
but to love her and feed her
is something
we can do