Letter from a dove

In the town square, pigeons are like living clocks: they arrive in the morning, collect crumbs, and disappear as dusk falls. One of them—gray-blue, with a white breast and intelligent dark eyes—always attracts the attention of passersby. It's not afraid of people, but it doesn't ask for pity either: its gait is calm, and its movements are precise, like those of someone who relies only on itself.

A pigeon can be noticeable in the most ordinary things: it soars upward, wings spread, and in that moment, all the noise of the city seems to recede. Its flight is a brief freedom between houses and wires, a small odyssey in which it is both participant and observer. People look up, and for a second their thoughts become simpler: bread, sun, wind in their feathers.

I always enjoyed watching a pigeon choose a resting place. It carefully examines the tiles, balances on the curb, sometimes perches next to children and patiently accepts their timid touches. These small gestures reveal trust in the world: the pigeon has a habit of remaining close by, reminding us that even in the hustle and bustle of the city, there are corners of simple joy.

The pigeon is more than just a city bird; it is a small symbol of resilience. It teaches us to notice the everyday: a crumb of bread, a warm stone, a ray of sunlight on a roof. Its simple image connects people from different backgrounds: tourists taking photos, elderly people throwing food, children laughing. This shared care contains a kind of recognition: we all depend on each other, even if that dependence is expressed in the banal act of feeding a bird.

When I leave, the pigeon rarely flies far. It looks around, as if memorizing the meeting place, and then takes off on its urban errands. I like to think that somewhere he's telling other birds about people who know how to stop and share crumbs - and that this little kindness comes back into the world as peace and warmth.