i.

what a privilege it is to be a pigeon, it thinks, and searches for birdseed or mcdonald’s or fritos the same way i search for meaning in this godforsaken world, the same way i search for myself & am continuously surprised to find an answer.
 

ii.

it is trying to find a god to help it become brave, the pigeon realizes & stares a bit too hard at its reflection in the trash receptacle, looks a bit too long at the sky (all it sees is scratched, dark pigeon head; gummy beak; blue, white clouds, dark gray edges that forecast rain).
 

iii.

there is no world where a pigeon effectively resists anything where it is not in danger, it thinks to itself, outside the white house, as a man tears apart wonder bread & scatters it on the grass, in chunks too big for its stomach, but still it eats and eats and eats, a bus honks its horn, a squirrel climbs a bench, a police car runs its siren, the animal of it all.