Day 11: One a Day: Pigeon



People act as if you aren’t there. The sign for an ‘All-day breakfast’ gets more attention than the emerald green smattering on your stout body. Little bubbles pop in the blood, not yet dried by the early morning sun. I put my hand over your body. It is still warm. If a monkey would have fallen off a horse there would have been attention. But you are only a pigeon. People popping out for a pint of milk and some potatoes step over you, making sure they don’t tred in the blood. You are only a pigeon, and even though 32 of your brothers have been decorated with the Dickin Medal for War Contributions, your importance in a time of great peril for mankind is disregarded. Nobody remembers. Men were executed for killing carrier pigeons on their side and now you are kicked, trodden on and squashed without a second thought. Grateful maggots have found you, and are fast turning you into a stinking soup.