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