Little did I know as I emerged from the covers what this particular Wednesday had in store. I toiled away on campus, excited by the blank canvas of the afternoon— a treat at the close of the workday. I thought I’d embark on some sketches of long contemplation. Mother Nature had other plans.

I returned home to golden afternoon light streaming into the living room and casting long shadows of table and chairs on the amber hardwood floor. A quiet tabby cat tiptoeing across the antique chest would have been an apropos detail…but reality check: I’m a dog person, and the building doesn’t allow for pets. Instead, I have new plants— a second attempt at nourishing botanical life in the space. Keeping to my goal of not being a deadbeat herb mom, I promptly visited the sill to check on Mr. Parsley, Ms. Basil, and Chive Kid. Disturbed by their limp greeting, I sprinted for water, and they quickly came to. Though slow and quiet in development, I can see their reactions to water and light, which is of utmost fascination to this rookie botanist. They make good starter life, like hermit crabs or sea monkeys. I had neglectfully left the last crop at my parents’ house for two weeks after returning from vacation. Therefore, it’s probably best that I keep at it with these organisms before the slightest consideration of those with fins, fur, or feelings.

I wandered around with no strict plan. Dinner next? Drawing? Oh yes, of course, I’d yet to retrieve the freshly washed bath mat from the porch— a mundane, but essential, detail to the story. Clearly, this had to be next, knowing what simple pleasure would be found in stepping from tub to carpet versus linoleum. I fussed with the crotchety old metal lock to enter the balcony, and immediately noticed the intruder staring directly at me. First instinct? Take out the iPhone. Quinn is going to hate this.

My roommate and I have been living with a pigeon problem for several months. She detests them with fiery rage. They congregate atop our roof, and we’re certain that they’ve breached the crust to squat in the wall between our rooms. On late winter nights we’ve heard clawing, scratching, and cooing at close proximity. Their distinctive murmur visibly makes Quinn shudder. Judging by traffic, it’s quite possible that our seemingly ordinary rooftop is in fact the pigeon Logan of the Northeast. The apartment really is exceptional; we just don’t appreciate these feathered freeloaders

Given our history with the birds, finding one perched inside the screened balcony gleefully making eye contact warranted a photo for my beloved travelling housemate. After snapping a few shots, I found myself in one-sided conversation (a typical side effect of Quinn’s absence). “How did you get here, sir?” No response, but distrustful of my approach, he furiously flapped to a small opening near the ceiling. Perhaps easy enough to sneak in, but too hard to sneak out once trapped and panicked.

Surprisingly, he then took to the ground, nervously waddle-hop-shitting around, completely cognizant of my presence. It was clear that he assumed malicious intent. Not me, buddy. Check out those herbs— I’m a pro with living things! I hoped he would free himself as I made dinner, so closed the door to let him ponder that.

I’m a pro with living things!

Drawing plans were now out of the question: Operation Fowl Freedom would be all-consuming until met with success.

My hopes for his self-liberation proved fruitlessly wishful. When I checked back, he had perched in a hanging planter turned bird bassinet. At least some living thing was making use of the bucket. Dried remains drooping off the sides made it décor fit for the Addams Family. (I kept it out of view from the new plants.)

Watching that bird gently sway was possibly the most pacific thing I’ve ever seen. He looked fully at peace despite the circumstances, just rocking to and fro in the last gleams of sunshine. It was as if he had succumbed to the situation, and now just sought comfort. Why trouble him with the pursuit of capture and freedom? But it didn’t seem right, a wild creature suddenly caged, with the outside so near. I had to participate, and so gathered a random assortment of materials that might prove helpful in the cause.

Attempt number one: bucket over bird, cardboard underneath…

Huge failure.

He panicked before I got close enough, and frantically fluttered near the ceiling before finding a place on the railing inside the screen.

Okay, regroup. Attempt number two: throw old shirt over, then bucket, then cardboard under, then bring downstairs to release…

And second failure.

The pigeon finds a three-inch space between the screen and metal bars that surround the balcony. He desperately tries to force himself through the bars, but is too big. The space opens at the railing, so he could get out if he would just scramble upwards… but I can’t make this apparent to him, even by trying to lure him with seed. He freezes between screen and bars, where no action is possible. We’re both stuck. Don’t you get it, man? You want to be free. I want you to be free. We want the same thing. But there’s this painfully ironic disconnect between us.

I call my family, hoping for advice. Dad relays that mom has succeeded in what appears to be the impossible by covering with a sheet and moving by hand. They’d had a pigeon stuck in the backyard fence. Mom did it; so can I. Dad suggests waiting till morning, so that it will be able to navigate with greater ease when freed. I try to make a little nest of the garbage bucket and soiled bath mat (the bird has quite obviously had his way with it). He watches from the railing, and I imagine him chuckling, “Oh, I’m not going to use that.” I peek out from time to time after closing the door, only to see him perched in the same spot, head lowered into neck, vulnerable to the elements.

I retire to my own nest, unsure of what the morning will hold, aware of my trepidation in moving boldly and swiftly to capture and release.

Much to my humor, upon rising I find that our new housemate is in fact using the bucket; he’s just opted to stand in the corner behind it, rather than actually entering the little cave. Your choice, buddy. I move the bucket to start the process. The first attempt fails. I’m just not swift enough, and he retreats to the nook between screen and bars. Time for breakfast. The clock is ticking. I only have an hour before the little guy spends the whole day caged.

After scrambled eggs, I’m in a better place, and so is the bird— now on the inner railing. I slowly move in with the sheet then simultaneously throw overhead and grasp. Almost instantly, I can feel his little heart racing between my hands. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” I try to soothe in my foreign tongue, hoping there’s been no harm. I move fast, awkwardly trying to get doors open with one hand to run him outside. There’s great relief upon exit. I gently set him down on the front steps, and he hops out from beneath the sheet noticeably disoriented. He peeks back at me then flies up to the ledge of the second-floor porch and stares down my way. Because I know he doesn’t understand my words (and because I can stand for the neighbors not to catch me conversing with a pigeon) I think to him, “See, sir, I meant no harm. I know it was scary for a minute, but look, now you’re free.”

Just maybe— with the physical context, being in it, being free— he gets it.