The first shiver of frost alerted Jackdaw to the prospect of a hard winter. His thoughts turned to his stomach as they often did. To survive, he would have to eat and eat and eat some more. But how was he going to do that, he wondered, when food was already becoming scarce?

So Jackdaw set off in search of things to eat. Soon he came across a farmer scattering seed for the pigeons who lived in his yard. He flew down eager to join the feast. But the pigeons did not want to share and they drove him away with a barrage of nips and pecks and squawks.

From a safe distance, Jackdaw watched the pigeons amble around the yard, pecking at the seeds, eating their fill. They would survive the winter in comfort, he noted with envy. They even had a cosy loft in which to roost, not the blustery treetop that awaited him.

He resolved to join the pigeons, if only for the winter, but to do that he would need to change his colour. So he found the remains of a bonfire and rolled head to tail in the ashes. When he emerged, he was a pale, mottled-grey, good enough—he hoped—to pass as an ordinary pigeon.

Jackdaw waited until the farmer came out to feed the pigeons, then slipped alongside the flock and began to tuck in. This time no one gave him a second glance. He ate and ate and ate some more, and then he hunkered down in the corner of the loft to rest.

But it was one thing to imitate the way the pigeons looked, quite another to get along with them. He could not make the same noises. His voice was too harsh to reproduce their soft, melodic babble. If he wanted to remain, he knew he would have to keep his beak shut.

But the pigeons were talkative and noticed his silence. They tried to strike up a conversation, asked if everything was all right, and Jackdaw had to bob his head or peck an imaginary seed or suddenly flutter his wings to avoid having to make a reply.

Eventually, he grew tired of the questions. “Everything’s fine!” he cawed sharply. “The food is plentiful, the loft is warm. Now shut up and leave me alone.” For a moment, the pigeons were startled. Then they attacked with a barrage of nips and pecks and squawks.

Bruised and sore, Jackdaw escaped. He flew straight home to his own kind. Unfortunately his kin did not recognize him. They also took him for an intruder and drove him away with nips and pecks and squawks, more vicious than those he’d received from the pigeons.

“What are you doing? I’m one of you,” Jackdaw protested. “You look like a pigeon,” the daws replied. “That’s a disguise,” Jackdaw explained and he had to tell them about his plan to go and live among the pigeons, if only for the winter.

His kin did not like the plan. “So you think we are going to die?” they asked. “No, it’s just the pigeons have it easier, that’s all.” “Why don’t you go back and join them then?” “I can’t. They know who I am now,” Jackdaw explained. “As do we,” his kin replied, darkly.

“I am Jackdaw,” said Jackdaw, but his kin had turned their backs on him. “I am Jackdaw,” he called again., but no one answered his call. He was facing winter alone in the blustery treetops. His thoughts turned once more to his stomach.

© Richard Parkin, 2022