L. Young

Pigeon Park

The night was not hot or humid. It's March, and it's not even night. It's a mild and foggy morning. Saturday morning, in fact, and Lorena finds herself sitting on a park bench picking crumbs off her itchy sweater and feeding them to the pigeons that are bobbing their heads around her feet. A slight sigh drains out of her. She thinks about Pidgeon's and how they are not asking for much. They have their mediocre suits on, on a mediocre morning eating mediocre crumbs. The Pidgeon's are okay with this, and she wonders if she is a pigeon in life. Maybe. If she suddenly turned into a Pidgeon, she was dressed for it.