Pink-Neck Green Pigeon

Borb, Mr Green's daughter, chirped with glee. “Is this Thomson? You said there’s a tree that grows weird durians!”

“Better,” Mr Green said confidently.

Chirp, who was sporting a few berry stains from lunch, perked up. “Is this about that giant pigeon statue again?”

“You guys are almost fledged,” Mr Green said, nuzzling them gently. “Green pigeons visit the Fat Pigeon for blessings before young birds take flight on their own.”

The sky was dim, hazy but the the remaining sun rays made the river glow a gentle gold. As they approached the plaza where the Fat Pigeon Statue stood, they were greeted by a swirl of rock pigeons flapping about and fighting over food scraps.

Rock pigeon nests are scattered across the infrastructure around the plaza, built from twigs, bits of plastic, and random debris, and tucked into nearby ledges and rooftop corners. They passed one ragged pigeon gingerly placing a twig next to a single, vulnerable egg on a concrete bench.

“Ew...” Borb chirped rather audibly. “Do they call that a nest? Aren’t they too... distracted by chasing soggy crumbs and giving up on proper housing? These pigeon’s idea of home improvement is adding a third stick."

“Chirp!” Mr Green warned in hushed but sharp tone. “Mind your manners.”

He hovered close to them, lowering his voice. “Rock pigeon ancestors lived on wind-battered cliff faces, where flat and sturdy nests were the key to survival. So their nesting ‘design’—while strange only to us—is inherited from eons before skyscrapers.”

The chicks blinked. They looked again at the sparse and messy nests.
“And they sleep here under the skies patrolled by peregrine falcons. Living in the nooks of concrete helps them hide better.”

The two fledglings' feathers fluffed with anxiety. “Are they out at night?” Borb asked, glancing toward the tall buildings.

“No,” Mr Green said casually. “Falcons are day-flyers. At this hour, even hunters dream.”

Chirp began to examine one of the makeshift nests from a respectful distance. "Still...it could be... better.”

Borb suddenly puffed up, wings rising slightly. Her eyes shone.

The statue towered over them. A bronze pigeon with an exaggerated belly, half-smiling, and its checked tucked out.

“Wow,” Borb whispered. “She looks very well-fed.”

“She represents more than food,” Mr Green explained proudly. “She’s about prosperity, generosity, and always having enough to share.”

“But mostly food, right?” Chirp muttered, wondering how much he had to eat to attain this rotund figure.

The trio stood in silence, marvelling at the grand size of the pigeon statue.

"You’ll leave tomorrow," Mr Green said softly. "Just like I did once. Remember — Fly with kindness. And never forget where the best figs grow. We will meet again soon enough at our favourite spot.”

“Dad, I want to help them! I want to help rock pigeons build better homes — strong, comfy nests. Like ours. With springy twigs, layered leaves, airflow…but still with their tradition in mind.”

Mr Green gave her a long, proud look. “That’s a noble thing.”

Borb flapped her wings excitedly. “Materials will be twine, pliable sticks, leaf composites, and ethically sourced lint. I will develop new nest safety standards.”

Mr Green chuckled. “I look forward to seeing your work in pigeon towns.”

“You will soon hear about Borb the amazing builder.” Borb replied coolly.

"How about you, Chirp? Where are you going?"

Chirp tilted his head, eyes narrowing in thought. He seemed to mull it over for a moment. “I think I want to be a mango farmer,” Chirp said. Mr Green and Borb looked at him puzzled, like that idea came out of nowhere.

“Really?” Borb blinked.

“Yeah,” Chirp said airily. “Rare commodity in the city. I’ll harvest only the finest, most golden mangoes. Not just for pigeons, but all birds who appreciate a aesthetic well-aged fruit. I’ll sell to treetop bird cafés.”

Borb narrowed her eyes. “And what if they just get their fruits from... like, any other tree?”

“That’s where service comes in,” Chirp explained. “There’s a fee for selection, exclusive tastings, tailored recommendation based on preferences and beak type.”

Mr Green looked at his children. Borb already measuring the perch angles of nearby balconies. Chirp sketching shadowy mangoes in his mind.

“Someday my mangoes and i are so famous that there will be a giant mango statue next to her.”

“Make it as plump as Prosperity Pigeon!” Chirp added.

Suddenly, without warning, a massive droppings landed directly in front of them — just inches from Mr Green’s claws.

The trio looked up slowly.

A rotund juvenile rock pigeon, perched smugly on the head of the Fat Pigeon Statue, tilted his own head, watching them. "Mango?", the young rock pigeon asked, eyes filled with anticipation.