The pigeon – a small-headed bird with a fat waddling body on two scraggy legs balancing a long tail. It is indeed a silly creature of the city, flying up in a lurch when disturbed and bobbing about pecking hapharzardly at the ground, doing their ritual mating dance when in season.
In my old age I too have become a target for the buffeting winds of our time.
One cannot deny the toll of aging. There is something so ridiculous and comic about the doddering, challenged individual attempting to share a pedstrian thoroughfare with the young and fit. I am invisible to those who seem always in a hurry to be somewhere else. When I do ask for help, as with a heavy door, I am happy to see the young come awake and see me with surprised appreciation, often responding with kindness and generosity.
Remaining silent in the effort renders me a mere ghost, so I become quite vocal remarking on being ‘challenged’ navigating ‘hazards’ with humor. Good nature seems to be a universally recognized language, even for a pigeon.