Of a Fallen Feather

From a distance it looked like a dead bird. Even from just a foot away it was nothing more, but there was something comforting about the way its eyes remained closed, how it sat so perfectly still. The pigeons here never died a pitiful death. Even the young ones, who in a desperate attempt to reach out for life and adventure, fall to their untimely demise - surely do not pass as an embarrassment.

There are those who ensure the safest and most appropriate passage of such a delicate creature into the afterlife. The ants. They come in droves, waves of them moving in such a busy and sophisticated manner. They hover over the fresh corpse and analyze it carefully. Moments later, the dead bird is blanketed in small animated dots that are ceremoniously embalming the animal in preparation for its reincarnation.

Now the seemingly worthless fowl is worshipped by thousands of small, devoted servants. Suddenly this immobile carcass is alive with regality and prestige, almost teasing the jealousy out of the other young birds still warmly perched above.

For a moment in time, life and death are tangled together in an immaculate mess. All this, on the side of a road, nearby a brand new car. The owner had just finished washing his windshield, and you could hear him swearing under his breath - something about the nuisance that is bird shit.

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