I love the sky.

Cottony peaceful blue that can turn black and shoot out lightening.

Old man sitting on a park bench feeding pigeons looks happy. He coos and calls to them so he can smash their little heads with a baseball bat if they get too close. Feed arches through the air and bounces amongst the strutting birds that manically bob their heads and eat quickly, as if they have somewhere else to be in a few minutes. More feed arches in amongst them and, indiscernibly, the radius of these throws gets progressively smaller.

Coo, bob, peck. Coo, bob, peck. Peck, waddle, strut. Peck, waddle, strut.

Closer and closer they move toward the bench, as all the while the old man coos and makes clicking noises. Finally, a few bits of feed fall near his left foot, which a fat one with a white body and a black head quickly moves to gobble up.

BAM! The bat comes around from the old man's right side and fuses the pigeon to the sidewalk in mid-peck.

Immediately the other pigeons retreat through the air in unison, the beating of their wings masking the sound of the bat being returned against the park bench at the old man's side. He reaches back into the brown paper bag of feed on his lap and begins to throw handfuls of it through the air in a high arching pattern.

In no time at all, the sight of easy food pushes the lesson from their tiny brains and they begin to come back, two by two, until the area around the park bench is again full of them. The old man feeding them looks happy, as he coos and calls to them. I can tell by his red vest we are from the same place and are, ultimately, heading in the same direction.

Coo, bob, peck. Coo, bob, peck. Peck, waddle, strut. Peck, waddle, strut.

The old man looks over in the direction where I am playing catch with my little brother. He smiles and waves. "How are you today little Mr. Killcrop? Want to help me feed the pigeons?"

Coo, bob, peck. Coo, bob, peck. Peck, waddle, strut. Peck, waddle, strut.

I don't know how he knows my name, although he comes to the park every week. Maybe he knows my family, or maybe he just likes my red vest. "No thank you. I'm not supposed to go with strangers and I don't really like baseball anyway." The man nods thoughtfully and, after pondering this for a moment, replies, "That is probably a good idea. If you really think we are strangers, I mean." The old man winks at me and smiles before turning back to the pigeons, throwing handfuls of feed in a high arching pattern.

Coo, bob, peck. Coo, bob, peck. Peck, waddle, strut. Peck, waddle, strut.

I really don't like baseball, but playing catch with my little brother is fun. One day soon I'll show him how to throw the ball really hard. When you're good at that, you don't need to get the pigeons to come close to the park bench.

Overhead I can see dark clouds drifting toward us, they are thick and full of rain.

I love the sky.



By Steve McKennon, 22 October 2004

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