from “Just, The Animals”
I once saw a pigeon on Third Avenue hobbling around with a needle sticking out of its eye. Not a small needle either, a long one, about four inches. It swayed like a lightning rod in the wind as the pigeon bobbed its head talking its pigeon language. Its I wish I was a dove language. The wrong color language. The wrong place at the wrong time language. The thing is, it didn’t look too bothered by the needle. His pigeon friends didn’t care. They pecked at crumbs and street debris. It tottered on brittle orange feet.