In March, I was soaking up the sun in my California prison’s recreation yard, when I observed a startled flock of pigeons fly in one direction. Then they abruptly turned and went the other way. Their flight pattern was erratic. Something was wrong.
I spotted a lone hawk flying close behind, seeking a morning meal. It darted headfirst into the flock, and grabbed one of the pigeons with beak and claws. Feathers fluttered through the air like confetti as it attempted to carry the pigeon away.
It appeared as though the hawk was going to be successful. But then the pigeon shook loose from its grasp and tumbled to our baseball diamond.
The pigeon lay on the ground momentarily, unconscious. I assumed the bird was dead. I assumed the hawk would double back, retrieve it and continue on with its morning meal.
The hawk never returned. The pigeon stood, then stumbled, then staggered, then stopped on its way to one of the several circular concrete tables dotting the rec yard. The tables — used for hanging out and playing board games like chess and dominoes — have circular, concrete benches connected to them, providing an ideal shelter for a scared, shocked or confused pigeon.
As I watched the bird settle under the table, my heart went out to this little survivor. But in the back of my mind, I knew it wouldn’t make it through the night. Pigeons gotta fly to survive.
The next day, as I walked a few laps with friends after our workout, I glanced over at the table where the pigeon had staggered and expected to see its remains. But, to my surprise, the pigeon was still there, pecking at a pile of bread crumbs and salted sunflower seeds, which were piled next to a Folgers jar top filled with water.
Six or seven healthy pigeons were paying their injured friend a visit — and taking advantage of the smorgasbord offering left by humans.
I noticed every table in the yard was occupied except for the pigeon’s. With each passing day, I checked in. And every day, he was still alive. I was awed and inspired by this bird.
Every day another prisoner joined the bandwagon and showed support for the pigeon. More bread came. More sunflower seeds. More water. And, of course, more pigeon visitors. I even saw some Goldfish cheese crackers under the table around Day 6. That was the first day I witnessed the pigeon attempt to flap its wings. It never left the ground.
Still, we did our best to nurse the pigeon back to health. People surrounded the table and hand-fed the pigeon. Feeding a wounded bird by hand surely helped it recover. A week after the attack, the pigeon appeared to be getting stronger.
On Day 9 somebody brought out plenty of bread for the pigeon and refilled its water. Many pigeons were still under the table enjoying the all-you-can-eat buffet.
There is a written, albeit seldom enforced, rule that prisoners are not to feed wildlife such as the lizards, frogs, gophers, occasional snakes, rabbits, seagulls, sparrows and crows that appear here. But in the case of this wounded pigeon, some rules are made to be broken.
About 10 days after the pigeon arrived, prison rec yard workers gathered paper, twigs, rocks and anything else that might get caught in a lawn mower. They placed the items in a plastic bag in preparation for cut-the-grass day, which happens on Tuesdays.
A worker revved up the gas-powered lawn mower, which frightened the birds and caused them to fly off in haste. The wounded pigeon watched as its friends flew away.
Then it took a few steps, tested its wings.
It began to rise, continued to flap its wings, and I’m sure I saw it smile as it flew off to catch up with the flock. The universe had given it a pardon, a second chance at life.
