"Birds Gossip in the Morning"

A dove settles on the fire escape, gazing out over the garden in Greenpoint.

Pigeons are birds, too—and in Greenpoint, they like to announce this before the sun has fully made up its mind. From the fire escape, their soft cooing rolls into the morning like a tiny neighborhood orchestra warming up. They arrive in pairs, these city romantics. I’ve heard pigeons mate for life, which sounds almost suspiciously noble for birds who also strut around like they own the sidewalk. Still, I admire the commitment. I might even be the same way myself, whenever—if ever—I find a permanent mate worth cooing over.
 
Of course, the pigeons are not the only performers. Other birds join in, louder and busier, filling the morning with chirps, calls, and whatever urgent gossip birds trade before breakfast. The pigeons seem gentler than most of them—though perhaps not as gentle as doves, who always look as if they are auditioning for peace itself. There are so many trees in this part of Brooklyn that the backyards blur into one long, leafy square hidden from the street. Bushes climb high, branches lean over fences, and the whole green tangle makes it hard to tell where one neighbor’s little kingdom ends and another begins.
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That is the pleasure of the top floor: you can open the windows, let the fresh air wander in, and listen to the whole feathered cast calling for mates, feeding babies, and carrying on as if the block belongs to them. It is an ideal place to write because it is quiet without being empty. You know New York is out there—trains grinding, trucks sighing, someone somewhere arguing about parking—but up here, with birds singing all day and a lone dove landing on the fire escape like a visiting saint, the city softens. It feels a little like heaven, or at least my version of it, though I suspect heaven would eventually check my record and send me right back to earth.
 
It is hard to leave New York when it is time to go home again. You start making bargains with the future: one of these days, when the bank account behaves, when life finally stops tapping its foot, you’ll stay. You’ll unpack for good. You’ll become one of those people who says “my neighborhood” with the confidence of someone who has no train to catch.
 
But for now, old Peekskill will do just fine. It is not so far from the city by train—shorter by car, sure, but trains give a person time to think, stare out the window, and pretend every passing river view is part of a movie. Peekskill is an all-right kind of town, especially because New York is still there for weekends, long weekdays, and sudden escapes. And every morning in my loft, I hear the same birds carrying on outside my window, reminding me that wherever I land, the day begins with a little music