Pigeon Pot

Wiry,springy,curvy,independent strands that defy gravity, stand up defiantly. One would think years of being straight has got them into rebellion on their death bed. The reference in the lines above are of my hair gone wild on the assumption that having grayed has made them dead because their entire life’s leanings were tending to be straight. 

The fields above had started their color mixing in college owing to genes from a family of greys.So without bothering much I've been tossing them about for a couple of decades, carefree in the breeze with days gone without seeing a brush. 

These days of indulgences seeing their final when a friend of mine called me out. 

Wiry!!!!..that is the word that sprang the hair brush from retirement. 

I have images of a shiny mane as the routine incorporates hundred vigorous strokes a day.But wiry remains wiry.....once a wiry always a wiry!!!! 

The styling of my hair has also been conditioned by the presence of another tiny human in my life. 

Mostly lack of in this case. 

Days in forgiving PJ’s, lounging about with a cup of tea that sees an excellent dipping routine of the digestives. Deft dips aiming to not sacrifice even a single crumb off the biscuit into the depths of tea that’s cooling off in moments spent chasing a crawling human. Excellence in small moments says the lady in white on You tube.....I'm perfecting the art. In ‘the boy’s’ words the art of turning old. 

Bringing me back to wiry and wavy. 

On the day, with all the participants being in place, the tea, the tiny human, the sunshine, the digestives, the scuttling husband on his morning office routine, and the pigeons.... 

Enterrrrrzzzzz pigeons. 

The fluttering machines that lay eggs and defecate in small bits all over my balcony. 

They sit and claw their ways through the Air conditioner’s wires, they hop and lay their tiny defecation bits on the parapet, where I rest my arms and that hot cup of tea.The little succulents , that find not the time in their life to stand hardy and green against the grey elements of the city, die quite instantly under their sharp beaks, getting hauled over into my balcony's corner by these winged creatures in their tireless mission for a nest. 

I love my garden,I love my Tea,I love the tiny human,I hate pigeons. 

Mostly I am very ardent in my following of names that we have tagged to birds, my enthusiasm has also run into buying a binocular, where it hangs around nicely sharing the task of plane spotting in the balcony. 

But specifically, In this case I'm at war with the pigeons. 

Not the little, she follows them with her shiny curious eyes, looking to look into their beady red ones. While they just ignore her, puff up and beak kiss all day, running circles around the other, chasing, flying off in their crescendo to climax within a second. (beats my human brain) 

Early lessons in Johny Bravo style wooing for the little human; for me tons of sighing, shooing and then finally cooing ‘Pigeon’...see ‘Pigeon’ and making peace with all that is around. 

Peace!.....also good for the wiry I believe.