Agnes and the Starlit Pigeons

by Francis Will

 

Agnes, with her hair the color of dandelion fluff and a smile as worn as her favorite cardigan, shuffled towards the park bench every morning. A canvas bag, emblazoned with a faded image of a plump tabby cat, swung from her bony wrist. It wasn't cat food inside, though. No, Agnes carried a far more fantastical offering – breadcrumbs toasted a particular shade of gold, sprinkled with a pinch of something that shimmered faintly in the weak London sunlight.

The pigeons knew. They'd gather in a rustling, cooing cloud the moment Agnes appeared, their beady eyes fixed on the bag. As she scattered the crumbs, the air shimmered, and for a fleeting moment, the pigeons weren't just plump, grey birds. They were iridescent, their feathers catching the light like stained glass. They strutted about, cooing in what Agnes swore sounded suspiciously like French.

One particularly bold pigeon, Agnes called him Reginald, would hop right onto the bench, his chest puffed out like a miniature feathered general. Agnes would hold out a finger, and Reginald would nuzzle it gently, his coo softening into a low rumble.

"Another busy day, eh Reg?" Agnes would cackle, her voice like dry leaves rustling. Reginald would coo in response, then peck at something invisible on her fingertip. "Found a lost earring, have you? You're a good lad, Reginald."

The park regulars, bless their polite hearts, pretended not to notice Agnes's shimmering pigeons or her conversations with Reginald. But sometimes, a young child, with eyes full of wonder, would point and ask their parent, "Why are the pigeons so sparkly?" The parent would mumble something about oil slicks, but Agnes would wink at the child, a secret smile playing on her lips.

One day, a young woman with fiery red hair sat on the next bench. She watched, mesmerized, as Agnes fed the pigeons. When the last crumb was scattered, the young woman turned to Agnes.

"That's incredible," she said, her voice filled with awe. "What do you feed them?"

Agnes's smile widened. "Just a touch of starlight, dear," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Keeps them chatty."

The young woman laughed, a sound as bright as her hair. "Starlight, huh? Well, they are the prettiest pigeons I've ever seen."

Agnes patted the space beside her. "Come then, love. Let's see if Reginald has any news for you."

As the young woman sat, a single, iridescent feather drifted down, landing gently in her lap. It shimmered faintly, a tiny whisper of starlight against her palm. The young woman looked at Agnes, a question in her eyes.

Agnes just winked. "Seems Reginald fancies you," she said. "He doesn't share his feathers with just anyone."

The park, with its ordinary pigeons and old ladies, felt a little less ordinary that day. A touch of magic, shared between strangers, thanks to a bag of golden breadcrumbs and an old lady who spoke fluent pigeon (or was it French?). And that, perhaps, was the most extraordinary thing of all.