“Birds On a Wire,” created by Bansky.

The wind whips in my face as I soar through the air, propelling myself forward, faster, and faster with every wing beat. My vibrant feathers glint in the sunlight, sparkle with beautiful colour; I am a green star streaking across the sky. Deciding to rest, I land with a soft plop on an electrical wire and sing a few notes of my own melody. My song catches the attention of a crowd of birds to the right of me. Their feathers are a dull grey, and their eyes gleam with malicious intent as they strut towards me, one by one, down the wire.

Pigeons, I think.

In their beaks and wings, the Pigeons hold signs painted with bold, black letters. As the grey birds come closer, I am able to make out the words.

“MIGRANTS NOT WELCOME.”

“KEEP OFF OUR WORMS.”

“GO BACK TO AFRICA.”

My melody dies in my throat as I stare at the signs, unblinking, disbelieving. I am still staring when one of the larger Pigeons breaks off from the group and closes the distance between us.

“I don’t know if you know, but this area,” he gestured vaguely with a wing, “does not allow your kind”.

His last two words are full of a poisonous hate. My kind. He is taller, and around three times the size of me, but I puff out my feathers.

“This is my country too, you racist bird-brain,” I spat back at him.

He cocks his head, eyes flashing dangerously. Whatever fleeting confidence I felt left, as he took a threatening step forward and growled,

“Our country was not built for little green birds like yourself to come along and contaminate it. Now do us all a favor; stay off our worms, our wires, and fly all the way back to wherever sad place you came from.”

I heard cheers of agreement from the Pigeons behind him, but they were just a dull echo compared to the pounding in my head, repeating his words over and over.

When I said nothing, he squawked “Did you not hear me the first time? Scram!” and lunged at me, talons flashing across my wing.

The hot feel of blood on my feathers was enough to wake me from my stupor, and I half jumped, half fell off the wire. With my injured wing, I awkwardly started flying, desperately trying to get away. When I reached the nest– a little thing of feathers, fluff, and sticks tucked away in the nook of a building– I curled up and hid in my wings. My green feathers didn’t feel so beautiful anymore. What makes me and the Pigeons different? We’re both birds; we eat the same worms, fly in the same sky. I came to this country for a better life. I curled deeper into my nest.

How long will it take for Pigeons to stop seeing me for my feathers?