A pigeon is nesting in my potted plant on my balcony. Or rather she was a few minutes ago. My heart is still racing from my crime.

She was there yesterday until I destroyed her industrious nest of twigs but she returned this morning. Her nest today was even bigger and better. I saw her there for hours before I could bring myself to do it. But I knew that if she hatched a baby pigeon that I couldn’t get rid of her and I wouldn’t be able to kill the hatchling either.

A few weeks ago, rather late at night, I was walking Murphy. It was raining just a little and rather chilly for the middle of May and at the apartment complex across the street, where I usually walk Murphy, there was an odd rain-soaked cardboard box in a corner of the lot. Murphy was very curious about the box and her curiosity raised mine. In the box were about 7 or 10 tiny little pigeons. They seemed all alive. I was horrified and so sad. I didn’t do anything but drag Murphy away and then I went home.

But I felt so bad. It was cold like I said and raining. And there’s something so sad about a baby bird. A thing born with wings that hasn’t learned to fly. They were so defenseless. I returned this time without Murphy into the wet black night. I took some ripped up shreds of bread. I don’t know if this is good for baby pigeons but it was all that I could think of. The box was open and the birds were wet. I moved the box just a few feet so that it was now under an overhang and so at least they wouldn’t get wetter. And then, for a few days, I avoided going back to that place because I didn’t have much hope for the hatchlings and I didn’t want to know their fate.

Now when I see a grown pigeon dead I don’t feel very bad. They can defend themselves and they can fly. And of course, there are so many and they are really annoying.

Just a few minutes ago I braved my balcony. The nesting pigeon looked sideways at me and didn’t move. I couldn’t help but imagine the ferocity of maternal instincts. And I felt criminal for interrupting, for threatening her and her enterprise. It wasn’t until I was nearly an arm’s length away that she finally gave up her nest. She flapped away and it scared me. I had a grocery bag and a handful of paper towels. Of course there was an egg, clean and white and opalescent amidst the dark soil and the twigs.

I continued with my crime. I removed the egg and the nest. Pigeons a balcony over and pigeons a balcony up watched and I felt condemned. And against all reason, I imagined that they would flock and attack me and I kept a watchful eye. A flock of crows is called a murder. What is a flock of pigeons called? I think the nesting pigeon returned and landed on the balcony next door to watch and to wait. She’s bigger and fatter than the other pigeons.

I wasn’t done. I didn’t want her to try again; mostly because I didn’t want to repeat this crime. So I got some toothpicks from my kitchen and planted them pointed end up in the soil of my plants. I wasn’t sure but I thought this might prevent her from building another nest and trying again.

I haven’t gone back to look to see if it worked. I hear pigeon squeals and squawking but I don’t want to see her confusion, her rage, her grief.

If it works, next Spring I will do it earlier to prevent this horrible feeling I still can’t shake.

SS