I don’t usually give in easily to gloom and sad thoughts.
I have in the past seen squashed pigeons on the road did not elicit the smallest amount of sympathy (I’m not big into the flying rats…)
But today just a glimpse of this poor little bollix triggered a disproportionately big pang of sadness in me.
It took me the walk back home to figure out what was so distressing about this sad minuscule scene (the little naked punk bird couldn’t have been more than 3 centimeters long).
I decided that it was the nakedness of the little thing, which made it look so vulnerable.
And the brightness of the beak, a bright happy yellow funky beak ill-suited to a premature death.
And then it hit me. The reason why it is was incredibly cruel: how sad is it to have been
born hatched a bird, and never to have experienced the exhilaration of flight.