SLATE THE SPARROW
I’m Slate, one of the four sparrows who stumbled upon this oasis in the heart of K.N.U.S.T., and I could not be more peeved at the moment.
The heavy rain from the previous night gifted us with this absolute gem of a pond, where we can have a good drink to our fill and have a good bath in. It’s our gift to enjoy!
Now, here we are, having to share it with these larger, less pleasant visitors—the pigeons and crows.
I eye the pigeons with suspicion as they coo softly on the other side of the puddle. I’m not moved by those gentle coos they let out; they’re anything but gentle. Big and clumsy, that’s what they are, with their plump bodies and those beady eyes that always seem to be judging. I’ve heard stories, you know, about pigeons hogging the best spots, pushing around smaller birds like us.
My parents, very wise and experienced sparrows who know what goes on in the city, have drummed so many cautionary tales of pigeons and crows into the ears of me and my sparrow siblings and friends. The pigeons, they always say, are feathered opportunists, strutting and cooing their way to the fattest crumbs while leaving mere scraps for the rest of us.
“Sly devils,” my father constantly mutters, “always moving two steps ahead, always with a hidden agenda.” He’ll then mimic their guttural coos, a caricature that sent shivers down my tiny spine.
No wonder we sparrows have to stick together; it’s survival of the fittest out here. All day every day.
And then, as if things weren’t tense enough, the sky darkens with the arrival of the crows.
Ughhhh!
Those unpleasant ominous figures with wings that seem to cast shadows even on the brightest days. Yeah, they just naturally ruin everything.
They’re just another breed of darkness my parents always speak about. My mother in particular, her cute little voice hushed, often speaks of their watchful eyes, their silent wings cutting through the sky like harbingers of ill fortune. “Scavengers, that’s what they are,” she’d whisper. “Ugly, despicable scavengers with appetites as vast as the shadows they cast.”
The arrival of the crows has turned this already uneasy truce between sparrows and pigeons into a three-way standoff.
So me and my fellow sparrows Ash, Faith and Raine remain stationed at our end, silently observing our two groups of adversaries. And feeling totally unimpressed with both species.
“These annoying strutting pigeons,” Faith huffs under her breath, staring hard at them, “always thinking they own the place. Silly walking bread bins with zero spatial awareness.”
“Yeah, and don’t get me started on the crows. Nasty creatures, those ones,” adds Ash, ruffling his feathers in disdain. “Looking like they’re mourning their lack of social lives with their black feathers.”
Raine and I chirp in amusement, the tension as thick as can be as we collectively eye the crows dipping their beaks into the puddle. I briefly steal a glance at the pigeons, and I notice their expressions of contempt directed at the crows as well.
“Looks like we’re not the only ones they bother,” I remark, my eyes narrowing as I observe the pigeons giving the crows a wide berth.
Our small hearts pounding in our chests, we watch the puddle with determination, unwilling to back down.
Sure, they might be bigger than us, but we sure as hell aren’t going to let them push us around. Not by a long shot.
***
SKY THE PIGEON
My name is Sky, and I find myself perched on the edge of the puddle, surrounded by this undeniable tension that hangs in the air like the last remnants of the morning mist I dislike so much. I glance over at the sparrows on one side and the crows on the other, and I can feel that familiar unease settling in my chest.
These sparrows are so irritating, always chirping and fluttering around, acting as if they own the place. I can’t stand their constant chatter and their swift, erratic movements. They seem to think they’re the kings and queens of this puddle. Yet we all know they’re just tiny, insignificant creatures in the grand scheme of things.
Everyone knows this. It’s a standard fact of life, like how everyone knows that squirrels are basically unpaid real estate agents, constantly relocating acorns no one asked them to. Like how everyone knows dogs have zero understanding of personal space.
Like how everyone knows that cats are the worst creatures on the face of the planet.
Yeah, I hate cats. With a burning passion.
I coo softly to my fellow pigeons, exchanging knowing glances. “Look at those sparrows,” I murmur, my tone dripping with disdain. “Always fluttering about, creating a racket. They have no idea what it’s like to be still and appreciate the serene beauty of a moment. It’s always go, go, go with them.”
The pigeons around me bob their heads in agreement. “Always in sixes and sevens, these ones,” Ares agreed. “They’re all chaos. No rhythm, no strategy. They just flutter about aimlessly, like leaves in a storm. Definitely not like us.”
“Oh, absolutely. They not like us. They not like us. They not like us,” Nyx adds.
I coo in amusement. Nyx recently heard this popular song made by some popular human, and he’s been repeating it since.
But yeah, he’s right. They’re not like us at all. We pigeons are dignified birds; we don’t need to flit around and be all over the like those tiny, hyperactive sparrows. We find our food, we find our spot, and we peacefully coexist.
Then I gaze over at the crows. Ominous figures with their dark feathers and that unsettling cawing.
I can feel the tension escalating as they look ready to try and assert their dominance over here. Typical of them.
“Crows,” I mutter, exchanging glances with my fellow pigeons. “They’re another problematic bunch. Always acting like they own everything. It’s as if they thrive on creating chaos wherever they go.”
“Tell me about it,” Ares concurs. “The loudmouths of the bird world. Always cawing about this and that. And they’re not even saying anything important. Just noise, endless noise.”
Nyx nods vigorously. “They think they’re so clever, always flying in packs, pulling those little stunts to scare everyone else off. But let me tell you this, yeah, there’s no honour in their ways. Absolutely none. They don’t work hard for their food like we do. They just steal whatever they can get their beaks on.”
No lies there. They are such a crass bunch, for real!
The atmosphere around the puddle continues to grow charged by the minute. Now, nobody’s drinking from the pond. We’re all just standing there, watching each other. Observing each other. Sizing each other up.
Judging each other.
I coo softly to my fellow pigeons, Ares and Nyx, exhorting them to remain vigilant. We’re a proud breed; a breed of integrity and dignity. And we won’t let these chaotic sparrows or crass crows push us around. We have every right to this puddle just as much as they do.
With each passing moment, the tension around the water deepens. It’s a silent standoff where none of us are willing to yield, bend or compromise.
Well, they certainly don’t have the nicest impressions of each other, do they?
