I stopped on the bridge at Middlebridge the other morning, mostly out of habit. The Narrow River was behaving itself—flat, reflective, pretending it wasn’t tidal and temperamental—and I leaned on the railing to take it all in.
That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone.
Lined up along the railing was a full delegation of pigeons. Not loafing. Not preening. Meeting.
I could tell immediately because no one was flying, no one was eating, and everyone looked mildly annoyed.
I raised my camera, but before I could take a shot, the one in the middle—clearly the chairbird—puffed up his chest and gave a low, authoritative cooo. The kind that says, “Alright everyone, let’s bring this to order.”
I froze. I didn’t want to interrupt parliamentary procedure.
From what I could gather, the agenda was packed.
Item One: Traffic Speeding
Several pigeons leaned out over the roadway, watching cars blast across the bridge like it was qualifying day at Daytona. One flapped angrily.
“Every time,” his body language screamed, “we calculate wind, current, thermals, AND THEN—WHOOSH—some guy in a pickup blows through doing fifty.”
Another pigeon nodded solemnly. A third mimed being blown sideways. This motion was met with general murmurs of agreement and at least one dramatic eye roll.
Item Two: Fishermen Leaving ‘Treats’
This topic got the room buzzing.
Now, pigeons are not above free food. They are, however, deeply divided on bait. One faction argued that discarded clams, squid, and bunker bits were an intentional offering—an aquatic charcuterie board, if you will.
Another faction warned that these “treats” were traps, covered in hooks, line, and regret. One elder pigeon held the floor for a full thirty seconds, clearly recounting a cautionary tale involving monofilament and poor life choices.
This item was tabled. No consensus.
Item Three: Bicyclists on the Sidewalk
This one caused visible agitation.
Apparently, pigeons respect infrastructure. Roads are for cars. Sidewalks are for people. Railings are for pigeons. This is the natural order of things.
When a cyclist barrels down the sidewalk, head down, spandex humming, it creates what the minutes would later describe as “an unexpected low-altitude threat vector.”
One pigeon demonstrated the problem by hopping two inches to the left, then glaring into the middle distance.
Motion passed unanimously: Cyclists—pick a lane. Preferably not ours.
Item Four: Other Landing Hazards
This was a rapid-fire session.
– Joggers with earbuds (unpredictable)
– Dogs that “just want to say hi” (liars)
– Sudden gusts off the water (rude)
– Humans stopping suddenly with long lenses (I sank a little lower at this one)
At that point, the chairbird glanced in my direction.
We locked eyes.
There was a pause. A long one.
Finally, he gave a short nod that I chose to interpret as permission to document the proceedings. I lifted my camera, took the shot, and the meeting adjourned immediately—because pigeons, like all good committees, vanish the second someone starts keeping records.
As they lifted off in a flurry of wings and indignation, one straggler lingered, gave me a look that said, “Don’t forget to mention the speeding,” and followed the others downriver.
I stood there alone again, bridge humming, river flowing, traffic flying by.
And I realized something important.
We may think we’re just passing through Middlebridge.
But clearly…
we’re under observation.
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