When a pigeon dies in your lawn

There’s been a dead pigeon in our front yard for weeks. I noticed it in between thaws a while back and left it there. New snow came and covered it again, preserving it. Every feather in tact, its body still bulbous, no other animals have found it for food.

It’s hard to move it, whatever caused it to collapse to its death there on the lawn under the catalpa tree. Bird flu? Heart attack? Severe trauma, poisoning, genetic marker that meant it might drop at any point? Is it an omen for us? Our very own oarfish, our frog rain.

Frog rain scene from Magnolia (1999) 

Pigeons are a symbol of resilience. We domesticated them as far back as 5,000-10,000 years ago; writings about them discovered on Mesopotamian tablets. (Their fragile bone structure makes it hard for them to fossilize for us to confirm.) Originally farmed as a food source before we started training those brilliant little rock doves to help us navigate unfamiliar lands and relay messages. An animal-to-animal bond was formed. But in the early 20th century, we started to abandon them. By mid-century, some of the last homing pigeons in America were used. Today, they’ve reverted to a feral state, but they are still here. Shuffling around city streets and rooftops, settling into long-term relationships and often living in the same area their whole lives. Sometimes dying on our lawns.

I’m driven to leave it lay there. Place ceremonial yard regalia like pine cones or flowers or seeds, but otherwise let it peacefully decay into the soil. After all, I’ve always been granted the experience of the carcasses of my selves getting to fall where they needed and wanted without anyone disturbing them. What else could I do for it besides place it in a shroud or compostable bag and bury it in the tiny cemetery in our side yard alongside the baby chicks that fell out of nests, the pet fish, and the dead mice offerings brought to us by our elder cat? Maybe it's because of its size, or the uncertainty of its death, but it doesn’t feel it belongs there. Its placement feels intentional, prime real estate in our yard for every passerby to observe.

If it is a sign, I’m taking it to be a positive one. The shared investment and energy in cultivating this space into a home created a safe, soft place to land. The pigeon giving us permission to outgrow versions of ourselves and let them die, landing wherever we might be in that exact moment. No need for a neat and tidy evolution. 

PS – I had a dream last night that I was watching a new version of myself being born out of a giant egg. The version that emerged was a cross-between Inside-out Boy from 90s Nickelodeon and the aliens from Signs. When the shell cracked, I crawled out, shook my head and my mane of me-now hair popped out from my inside-out-boy-Signs-alien life form. I waved at my-now-self and just kept walking. (Interpretations welcomed!) (In case you need a refresher/intro to Inside-out Boy or those aliens from Signs.)

PPS – Please share this blog/newsletter. Blog-letter. Smudge of words. Thought mixtape. With anyone you think might be into it. ✌🏼

Oarfish collage