Plenty of birds don’t make it before I pick them up. There’s a group chat for coordinating volunteers, injuries, locations. reports come in like “N1 1PN baby pigeon. Finder has said baby has passed away.” Three :heartbreak: reacts.
whats the life of a pigeon worth anyhow. just about nothing. the sheer waterfall of death and dying constant around us. a big yawning thing screaming across the sky. you don’t notice it. like your nose. so what’s one more for the reaper! not enough seconds in an hour to pay more-than-meagre respects to any of it before it’s forgotten, before Time bleaches every little dead pigeon out of existence. “baby” had sallied forth brave into life for mere days and is now absolved forever of memory in the mind of any living thing that was. whats the life of a pigeon worth anyhow.
I spent an hour on the tube with this feral pigeon (named Percy by the woman who found him) in his bright orange box
how profoundly weird, distressing it must be for him. the tube, the shaking, the screeching metal, flashing lights, so far beyond his comprehension
I cannot comfort him. Can’t open the box. All words lost in the cacophony
people look at you a lot more when you have a big orange box. good tip for attention. can they tell I have a bird in it. would they fear the presence of this bird amongst them like they fear the rats
she said Percy is a quiet pigeon. and it’s true, he squawked not once the whole time. but would shuffle around his box, flap a wing in displeasure when the tube shunted badly. most I could do was hold the box a little tighter. maybe you could feel my aura, Percy. you’re gonna be ok
the stoicism of a quiet pigeon. the absence of panic, somehow indicating greater intelligence. or bravery at least, dignity. uncanny. an alien mind I could almost touch.
I spent an hour on the tube with this feral pigeon (named Percy by the woman who found him) in his bright orange box
how profoundly weird, distressing it must be for him. the tube, the shaking, the screeching metal, flashing lights, so far beyond his comprehension
I cannot comfort him. Can’t open the box. All words lost in the cacophony
people look at you a lot more when you have a big orange box. good tip for attention. can they tell I have a bird in it. would they fear the presence of this bird amongst them like they fear the rats
she said Percy is a quiet pigeon. and it’s true, he squawked not once the whole time. but would shuffle around his box, flap a wing in displeasure when the tube shunted badly. most I could do was hold the box a little tighter. maybe you could feel my aura, Percy. you’re gonna be ok
the stoicism of a quiet pigeon. the absence of panic, somehow indicating greater intelligence. or bravery at least, dignity. uncanny. an alien mind I could almost touch.
some psychofauna are easily spooked. like deer. or like crows. direct eye contact is considered an aggressive move, and off it darts
with other psychofauna the problem is with the seer. maybe some pathology prevents you from seeing clearly. instead it’s a black hole for you and your mind slips and slides off it like an anti-meme
it ain’t *that* much food but I still feel vaguely monstrous as I watch the lunch ladies stepping in enfilade to deliver my bounty to me plate by plate
idk who needs to hear this but you’re doomed to kegan 3 if you still exclusively wear skinny/slimfit pants…I don’t make the rules…
