Pigeons are rock-doves, albeit, darker-colored than white doves, and sometimes called, “Sky Rats” Their feathered finery comes in numerous distinctive colors. One favorite pigeon at the prison is a reddish, cinnamon-colored female with iridescent colors wrapped around her throat, like a jeweled collar. When she fledged her wings and flew from her nest to our grassy yard, I became mesmerized with her bold coloring-red and white, “Chicken” had the same coloring of a chicken, hence, the name. She’s intelligent for a pigeon, as she knows her name, and will come when called, especially if you present her with a cornbread treat. As she matured, her colors changed into jeweled tones of blues, teals, and green around her neck, and her body changed to сіnnamon, then a light mauve as she has aged. The rest of the birds are shades of gray with darker bars of navy blue or gray black across the tail feathers and the tips of their wings. The pigeons exercise their wings first thing before the violet, blue, and orange sunrise, and again, before the sun dips into the sea of indigo sky. They go to their roost surrendering their individual freedoms for the warmth of a tight community. I can see the proud female we call “Chicken’ guiding the flock. Five lusty males rule over, at least, one hundred females in the harem in the prison Yards. But ‘Chicken’ is the undisputed reigning queen and leader.
It didn’t start this way. When we crawled onto the shores of the island prison, we found five pigeons only – Captain Morgan and his feathery concubines. Captain Morgan hobbled on one leg-he was a fat pigeon on a little peg-leg. He never let his disability get in the way of his main pursuits, sex and food. On 0ther days it was food and sex. Everyone was enamored with Capt. Morgan, so like a carnival of dunces, we fed him… and… fed him. Who’d have guessed the bits and pieces of red, chow-hall cake would have had such a ruinous effect on his looks, his puffy throat, and his plump waistline? We buried him with full nautical regalia—navy blue strings, placing the weighty carcass in the ground with all the dignity, flowers, and weeds he deserved. Now we have upwards of two hundred pigeons darkening the sunny afternoons, who’d have thought the pigeons would multiply this fast? Well, everyone lost track of the numbers, while I conditioned the birds to come when I whistled and rewarded them with cornbread.
It became uncomfortable for me when the pigeons, tired of the staff kicking them into the fences, turned aggressive on the correctional officers, and dropped bird-bomb on their tormentors. Thus began: Pigeon Wars.
The pigeons and the sparrows track my whereabouts around the prison, as they consider me BIG BIRD, The winged scavengers scarf down the delicacies: muffins, oatcakes, cornbread, dinner rolls, and the prison staple, iced chow-hall cake. Pigeons in the vast, sprawling city of New York, according to avian authorities and current studies have evolved into “eating machines” digesting and metabolizing our junk food. Pigeons in the prison yards will eat anything that doesn’t eat them first, including our bakers spicy iced cakes.
Feeling kind of sorry for the pigeons and sparrows in the frozen winter (yes, pigeons stay for the winter and so do the sparrows), I delivered a hot tub (old food containers filled with hot water) in the yard for them to bathe in during the extreme cold. It’s funny watching one of the fat, dominant male pigeons flop into the steaming water, floating and relaxing, denying the rest of the flock the pleasure of the warm water. The others grew impatient. You can hear the murmurings. A throng encircles, antagonizing the selfish male by pecking at his feathers, telling him by their actions, to just “Get the heck out of the water, you fat ass!” As the flocks have grown, so has their ability to drop targeted bombs on the slouching correctional officer leaning on the gates. I’ve been cursed at for feeding the birds. Well, that’s just nature, I explain to the mostly balding cops. I add…in Asia it’s considered good luck to get hit by a bird bomb. It doesn’t soothe the officer’s ego. They glare at me, threatening to write a report for feeding the wildlife. I Stopped feeding them, most of the time.
We’ve still got plenty of avian lovers, however, one of the most adoring fans Is Suzie Fastwolf a Native American artist. She stands out in the middle of the yard in the warm seasons with her outstretched arms. Chicken’s squatting on her head (the bird’s a drama queen) with scores of pigeons perched on her arms, shoulders, and wrists or hands; wild birds in complete harmony with one human female. With the blazing sun behind her, and the backdrop of the green, verdant mesa framing her body, Suzie, with her coal black hair resembles an Aztec earth goddess. As she moves, the rays of sun spike-out from behind her, like dazzling bronze spears pointed outwards in all directions. Suzie’s metamorphosis is complete. She’s the statuesque goddess holding court with her feathered minions. This goddess enchants and enthralls her followers, whispering in Diné until someone tosses cornbread in her path. The flock explodes; the. whirlwind of gray and white wings flutter to the ground as the pigeons scrabble in the dirt for crumbs.
The monsoons come, splatting drops of rain mixing with earth. The scent of the earth comforts us. The birds spread their wings for the moisture. The prison officials, immune from the enchantress, plot to poison or throttle the birds and their offspring. But mornings and afternoons with Suzie, and her host of feathered friends delights me.
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