“Oh, look, the dove of peace - that must be a good sign!”
I looked where Hayes was pointing. Sure enough, among the pigeons searching for food on the macadam, one had completely white feathers, which looked dazzling in the morning light.
“Proof, if more were needed,” I said, “that there’s no difference between a pigeon and a dove except what it’s called by humans.”
“What do you mean? It’s right there!”
I hesitated before I spoke again. This was a rare moment of calm in the endless round of boot camp. The rising Sun was lighting up the grounds, making even the bare macadam in front of the barracks look beautiful, especially with those birds on it. That’s why I was out there, in spite of the cold, even though I didn’t smoke. I’d started coming out early since a few days before, when I’d heard the opening notes of Dreamweaver coming over someone’s radio, amid the noise of 83 men going about their evening routines. I’d wished it were quiet, so I could listen to that beautiful song, regretting that of course nobody else would care. Until someone called out, “Pipe down, guys - it’s Dreamweaver!” The whole barracks-room fell silent, and we all gathered around the radio until the song was finished.
It had been a reminder that there was such a thing as beauty in the world, even this strange new world of gray paint everywhere and runny noses every morning. I’d begun looking for that beauty since then. It was also a reminder that these guys weren’t so different from me, and I needed to work on my condescending attitude.
I didn’t want to start an argument that would spoil the moment. But my inner smart aleck, never far from the surface, spurred me to pursue the point.
“Yeah, it’s right there among the other pigeons. The only difference in that one bird is that its feathers are all white, instead of being gray here and green there and white in a few places. Look at the shape of it.”
“Okay, but still, that one’s white. That’s what’s different about it.”
Gates said, “Back in Texas, there’s a lot of white doves. They’re not hard to catch, and pretty good eating.”
I was interested. I’d never heard of dove hunting before.
“Oh, man,” Ontraverros said, making a mock-disgusted face. “In New York, we don’t eat the pigeons.”
“No, no,” I said, “he eats doves.”
That brought scattered laughter to the group.
“I call my sister paloma,” Ontraverros added. “I wouldn’t ever call her ‘pigeon’.”
“Hey,” Hayes said, “I call my girlfriend ‘pigeon’. Or sometimes ‘pigeon-pie’.”
“Ewww”, I said. “You eat pigeons, too?”
“No, dude, I just eat my girlfriend.”
“Aw, man, that’s just nasty,” Gates said.
“Nuh-uh -- that’s why she’s still my girlfriend!”
The white bird started picking at a loogie on the macadam.
“Okay”, Gates said, “I ain’t eatin’ that dove.”
A pigeon with completely black feathers, as well as black feet and beak, settled among us.
“Look at that one,” Hayes said. “That’s called melanism. It’s the opposite of being an albino.”
Rogers said, “Nah, man, that’s a black pigeon.”
“No, no,” Ontraverros said, “that’s a black dove, man!”
This time the laughter was general.
http://www.yourdailypoem.com/listpoem.jsp?poem_id=2457
The Magic Eight-Ball says, "The map is not the territory."
