We spotted the pigeon on Friday from a toilet window that looks out over a few low rooftops, chimneys and air-conditioning units. This peculiar landscape, caught between various sheer walls of taller, greater buildings, is covered in that ubiquitous spiders' web of pigeon netting, which gives it an oddly sci-fi aspect, if you have an imagination so uninspired and anemic as mine. The pigeon had its wings pinned to its sides as it had tried to squirm through one square of the spiders' web, it had got halfway and could go no further in either direction. It's head nodded back and forth, its feathers looked patchy and greasy. It lay in a pool of its own blood. It made soft and persistent cooing noises while it's fellow gutter-birds looked on with dumb indifference. The futility of this birds final moments gave my friday afternoon a deranged feeling of poignancy.
It's lifeless tangled corpse was still there this morning. I could no longer discern a head or a tail, it's greasy filthy feathers sprang up in odd directions like it had been buffeted by high winds.
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