The biggest wino was named Moses and he stood at least a head and shoulders over everyone he'd ever met. Sometimes more than that, depending on the person, the head and the shoulders. He was as strong and black and good and sensible as he was big. He was just as gentle too, except for sometimes, when he needed to be otherwise.

The middle-sized wino was named Rudyard and he was rather tall and lean. He was taller than most, but not taller than Moses, who happened to be one head and two shoulders taller than Rudyard. Rudyard was two things more than Moses, though, and those things were drunk and crazy. Rudyard carried with him at all times a very long stick. This stick would have been head and shoulders taller than Moses, if it had a head and shoulders.

The smallest wino was named Solomon, but only one person called him that, and she didn't anymore. Everyone called him Solly and he was neither as drunk nor as crazy, nor as big, nor good, nor sensible, nor gentle, nor even as tall as his friends. He could play guitar though and it made him happy. Solly didn't carry a stick, but he had a thick brown moustache, and that made him happy too.

Moses, Rudyard, and Solly called themselves winos, though not one of them limited themselves to wine. In fact, they rarely drank wine at all, but they could think of no better name. They were decidedly not hobos. Certainly not. They lacked bindles, for one thing, and they had no use for trains, for another. And these are the fundamental parts of the hobo lifestyle. Absent within them was the migratory nature that necessitated bindles and trains.

When it had just been Moses and Solly living there in the park, they called themselves bums, but that never sat particularly well with either of them. A bum is someone who performs work poorly, and though they rarely worked, they excelled at it when they did find the occasion. Though Solly didn't consider playing his guitar to be work, it was how he made most of his money and he was quite good at it. From time to time, Moses cleaned water towers on tops of buildings across the city, which required great strength and dexterity. One could not be bad at a job like that and still be alive. So they called each other bums only for lack of a better word. When Rudyard joined their number, he brought with him worldliness. He was born in India but had spent much of his life in England, where, he explained to his new friends, '"bum" refers to one's rear end.' And that was the last time any of them had used the word.  

So they were winos then, but Moses preferred whiskey; Rudyard liked Scotch (which is a kind of whiskey); and given his choice, Solly choose beer. Would they ever turn down wine, by the glass or by the bottle? No, they would not. They liked that their tastes defied their label. A little bit of the kind of insubordination kept them where they were, just outside of society, drunk, in a park. Happy.

It was Rudyard who first saw the baby, though he only had one good eye with which to see it. His right eye was good.   It was the eye he was born with. The other eye gave him more pleasure. It was as big and as blue as a painting of the ocean or the sky, and though he couldn't see out of it, he could do much more with it. He used his big blue left eye to play marbles with the kids in the park and he never ever lost. It was through his right eye, his working eye, that Rudyard first saw the Pigeon Boy.

The three men were contemplating the qualities of the fire before them. The can that held the fire. The beans that cooked upon the fire. The cans that held the beans. The sticks that held the cans. Was the fire better at cooking the beans or keeping them warm? The winos spent as much time contemplating as they did drinking. They were experts in both fields. Presently, they contemplated the cost of perhaps buying fingers for their gloves. Did Sears and Roebuck sell just the fingers? Solly, for one, wasn't going to buy a whole new pair of glove if he already had most of a working set. "Perhaps we should go into business," Solly mused, "selling just fingers to people of our particular economic dispositions."

"Who's gonna make these fingers of yours? I ain't. And I know you ain't." Moses contemplated.   Yes, that counts as contemplating, as it's part of a larger contemplative discussion.  

"Well I do guess that leaves Rudyard, who is already of a disposition to make things, being that he is an inventor many times over. What do you say to that, Rud?"

To that, Rudyard said nothing.

He was on the opposite side of the fire. The side facing Solly and Moses. Rudyard watched as every pigeon in the park landed, one by one, behind Solly and Moses. And many of these pigeons were carrying a baby.

Solly and Moses kept on about their glove-finger business until the sound of cooing drowned out their conversation. The men stopped talking, but the pigeons got louder and louder. When the winos turned to look at the birds, the cooing suddenly stopped.

"I do not ever see such a thing, in all of my life," said Solly. "Do you ever see such a thing, Moses?" Moses shook his head. "And you. Rudyard. You are in England for a time and India before that. Do you see anything, in England perhaps or India, or even here in America, that sets your skin on edge such as this?"

"Three times, yes" Rudyard said, but did not elaborate. Instead, he said, "I think they are giving us this baby for the winter."

"Pigeons," explained Solly in as genial a tone as could be mustered, given the circumstance. "I do not want a baby. I want no responsibilities. In point of fact, I only desire irresponsibilities. Thank you, but I decline your offer of this infant on behalf of our organization."

"I don't think these here pigeons are giving us a choice." Moses was right, as he often was.

"There is always a choice, my good friend." Solly was wrong, as he often was.

The birds flew off, all but one curious pigeon. This one pigeon stared at the Indian with the tall stick. The Indian stared back.

"Moses, is it my imagination or does it look as if this pigeon nods at our good friend Rudyard?"

"It ain't your imagination it looks that, but it ain't noddin'. It's bobbin', which is just a function of the physiognomy of that bird."

It was not a function of Rudyard's physiognomy; rather it was due to the drunk, crazy, one-eyed Indian's unique sense of honor that he nodded back to the bird. Only then did the curious pigeon take to the air and join the rest of its flock on it way south for the winter.