Bird

by Kevin Adair

On a Thursday afternoon last spring, from the corner of Irving Park and Inner Lake Shore Drive my girlfriend, Rose, and I saw an injured pigeon tumbling in the street one-half block south. Traffic was light, and each car was able to avoid the bird by driving into the oncoming lane. "Oh, my God!" Rose shouted as each car nearly closed the bird's fate. A taxi drove over the pigeon; the bird tumbled beneath it, but was somehow missed by the wheels. One car seemed to aim for the bird, but again the tires missed it by inches. The bird struggled on, and Rose screamed, "We can't just watch it die!." I asked her what she thought we could do. "Kick it over to the curb!" she insisted. So, I ran down to the bird and pushed at it with my shoe. I pushed it again and again, but it just flopped about, never seeming to get any closer to the curb. Traffic was then forced to drive around me as well. I wasn't too thrilled with the idea of making any greater physical contact with this creature. It was bloody and covered with road dirt; not to mention the fact that even when they're in perfect condition, I do everything I can to avoid contact with pigeons. So, picking it up was not first on my list. Still, I wanted to help the pathetic thing, and I wanted not to disappoint Rose. With some effort, I got my foot under the bird's body and half kicked, half lifted it toward the curb. Once in the air from my kick, it didn't come down. The pigeon extended both wings and flew. It climbed higher and higher, seemingly well again. I was amazed. Perhaps my efforts weren't futile after all. Maybe it just needed to get its bearing, and it would find some place safe to rest and let its wounds heal. I had given it its chance. In spite of all its flopping about, both wings were clearly unbroken. It made circle after circle, riding the air currents and apparently testing its strength. After several minutes it glided gracefully to a landing into and under the wheels of traffic on the southbound Outer Drive.