Pigeon pokes around in the grass.

Bob bob bob bob bob bob.

Why are you so jerky, little pigeon? Is that what you want? Is that your rhythm? Do you wish you could be smoother?

Pigeon doesn’t hear me. Pigeon doesn’t care.

Pigeon is uptight. Pigeon needs to relax. “Relax, pigeon.” I whisper. Pigeon is coming closer. I can’t see his feet. Maybe that’s why he’s wading in the long grass. He is ashamed. “Don’t be ashamed, pigeon,” I whisper. He can’t hear me. His shame is too loud.

Pigeons don’t even have instagram. I think? Or do they? Do I just not pay attention. So classist. So… othering. They’re not worth it. I don’t even see them. Bob bob bob bob bob. Little pigeon. Where are you going?

He’s gone to the other field. He is probably self conscious. I think he saw me looking. And typing. He knew. Did he know? Does he know? Do they know? If they have instagram, maybe. If they don’t, maybe they know too. Maybe especially if they don’t. Maybe instagram stops us knowing anything, really.

Can pigeons use touch screens? I’ve never let them try. “Come here, pigeon, come try my touch screen,” I whisper. He can’t hear me. Because of the din of his shame. And also because he’s in the other field. There’s another pigeon. I guess this one is just as good. I guess that’s what they think about us. “Come here, pigeon, come try my touch screen.”