THE PIGEON

When I came home there was a pigeon on the front steps. It did not fly away, it is probably ill. When I went out for a smoke later it had moved higher up, probably to get out of the wind, as it had gotten a lot colder.
I stepped around it gently, as I did not want to startle the bird.
The little fella is likely dying, and there's nothing I can do.

How long do pigeons live? He, it, she is somewhat unhappy looking. There is a preoccupied gaze in its eyes. Is it cognizant of its own mortality?
Aware that all things come to an end?
Some sooner than others?

I fear that when I go out later it may have expired. Or not, but the creature may be somewhat closer to its demise.
Does it have regrets?


This pigeon is filling me with sadness.


If it has been a good pigeon, it will go to pigeon heaven; a place I do not wish to think about. It's probably a place with miraculous self-cleaning pavement and a perpetually replenishing supply of stale pizza.
Except for the pavement, that describes New York.


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