The city birds seem distracted these days, no longer chirping lively messages to one another but staring apathetically into the middle distance from opposite ends of a leafless branch, crapping indiscriminately on whatever passes by below.
Late risers who can catch no worms, these birds forage for food in trash cans instead, becoming obese from a diet of greasy human detritus, unable to fly south because they are too fat.
It's mostly the pigeons, of course, the avian equivalent of street corner delinquents demanding your small change and cigarettes. I wouldn't be surprised to see a pigeon sporting a tattoo on its breast or wearing ripped up fishnet stockings with leather wings, a switchblade stuck in its claw.
And above is the black-feathered Rebel Without A Cause of that pigeon underworld, hanging tough after drag racing cardinals and blue jays on a track in the sky. I thought he might grab my phone with his claw but he was probably too doped up to care.
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