The Pigeon

It was really light. Like it was hollowed out driftwood.

I don't carry many birds.
It's difficult when they are cocking their heads toward you, looking at you with those curious eyes; their little hearts beating, going pitter-patter. Their nervous feet interchange with each other, slide back and forth, hopping about, not sure what to make of you.

But this pigeon was flattened out on the concrete; it's stomach pressing into the earth, it's neck broken and eyes lifeless. There was a hole in it's shoulder blades; large enough to peer within. To see the hollowed out insides.

Light as a feather.

Every one walked past it, glancing at the dead creature. Walking on. A shudder or hesitant step were not among these street-walkers.

I stood there. Stared. Sam said, "Let's cross," and he takes me across the street. I look for newspaper.

"It's part of the city," he says. "It will rot into the concrete. It will grow out a new parking meter. Leave it be. Don't touch it."

But I still look for the newspaper.

I decide to go home. "I've got to watch Where the Wild Things Are," I tell him. "I haven't seen it yet."

"Don't touch the pigeon," he says. "That's how diseases get spread." A kiss goodbye. See you later.

I wrap the pigeon up in layers and layers of newspaper. I carry it to the nearest trashcan. I dump it in the trashcan, making sure that it is hidden beneath the paper.

Let it decompose in the dump. It is better than to be stared at or, worse, ignored.

It was light as a feather. Lighter than a breath of air.

I watch Where the Wild Things Are. I cry. It's a good movie.