I saw a dead pigeon in the Metro stairwell this morning.
It had flown into the plate-glass wall.
It was lying there in its own crime scene, or I mean suicide scene, or I mean accident scene.
Probably accident scene. I mean, it was a bird. They don’t have desires
or motivations, other than to eat and sleep and shit and breed. And to protect what they breed. They don't suffer from existential crises. They don't struggle beneath the weight of their perceived failures.
Its head lay in a small berry stain of its own blood.
As soon as I saw it I knew I would write about it.
How can you not, once you’ve taken a second to imagine what it was like –
to see that blue (or white or gray or black) sky that’s your home, and fly to it like always,
but to smack instead into your own ignoble death?
As soon as I saw it I knew I would make it about me.
How could I not, once I’d taken a second to imagine what it felt like –
the illusion of open air, the crash, the confusion, the blood,
the iridescent corpse passed by hundreds of morning commuters?