I met a young man on the Boston Common this week while he fed peanuts to pigeons. He was there, standing stock still, pigeons dripping from his arms, when I got off the train at Park Street. The sun had not yet cleared the tops of the buildings around the Common, giving everything a blue tint. Birds were everywhere. The air snapped with cold. I looked at him, pointed to my camera, and he gave me the nod to take photos.
He clearly cared about the birds. When he ran out of peanuts in his hands, he moved slowly to get more from his bag so they wouldn’t be startled. They thanked him by becoming ornaments on his body and sharing some quiet time with him. Birds landed on his shoulders, arms and head, happy to get whatever peanuts they could. They seemed to enjoy his company. He certainly enjoyed theirs.
As I shot more images the birds got used to me, too. They landed on my shoulders and arms as I watched and clicked. I held out my hand, and they perched on my fingers, their cold, pink feet balancing as their wings flapped, blowing cold air in my face.
In a sudden moment, they all took flight at once, hundreds of wings thundering as they lifted off. They wheeled in a great circle around the Common as one body, returning right back to where they started, as if nothing had happened, to eat peanuts.
