Pigeons are quite common in downtown Albany, where I spend one or two days a work week. They are there on rooftops, flocking in little parks, or soaring in formation over the buildings. Less commonly seen, and wholly unknown to me, is the pigeon predator that did this to an unsuspecting victim whose only remnants are these feathers. Dog or cat? Or maybe something more sinister and wild…
Winter is never less than ruthless. We are all hungry at this time of the year.
Winter also offers its own mark of dark beauty, in the barren and the sparse, in the brutal and the fallen. Among the detritus of pine needles and little branches strewn along the sidewalk, these white feathers merely hint at their story, the secret threat of their own ending. The next snowfall will sweep them away, in the manner that winter usually hides its crimes.
