R.I.P., Pidge
It was an Animal Card enthusiast's worst nightmare.
I went to meet a friend at the Jardin des Plantes for a refreshing walk in the sunshine. The temperature was hovering somewhere around freezing, but in the sunny spots of the park, the cold was bearable.
Waiting on a park bench, I watched a couple of fat, healthy pigeons scavenging the soil underneath the bushes in front of me. I remarked that these pigeons were definitely better off than the haggard wretches that roam our block. They were terribly shy, however, and kept waddling away when I tried to photograph them.
Katia and her baby arrived mid-photo shoot, so I stopped skulking around the yews to capture proof that non-horrendous pigeons do exist in Paris. We blabbed and walked through the rows of fallow plant mounds, and chuckled at this:
Once we exited the Jardin and entered the concrete jungle, the happy birdie vibes soured. Outside the park gates, my attention was caught by a fracas in the branches of a tree across the street. I watched confused as one gray pigeon flapped madly, tumbled between branches, then fell through the air topsy-turvy, until its small form slammed to the roof of the car below it. It twitched for a few seconds then stopped.
Katia and I looked at one another with horrified expressions, and then at the opposing windows for the pigeon sniper. No bones. So, as any blasé modern-day city-dweller would do, I started snapping photos, while other blasé witnesses grinned, apparently more interested in my photo/cellphone contraption than the morbid subject of my photos.
I went to meet a friend at the Jardin des Plantes for a refreshing walk in the sunshine. The temperature was hovering somewhere around freezing, but in the sunny spots of the park, the cold was bearable.
Waiting on a park bench, I watched a couple of fat, healthy pigeons scavenging the soil underneath the bushes in front of me. I remarked that these pigeons were definitely better off than the haggard wretches that roam our block. They were terribly shy, however, and kept waddling away when I tried to photograph them.
Katia and her baby arrived mid-photo shoot, so I stopped skulking around the yews to capture proof that non-horrendous pigeons do exist in Paris. We blabbed and walked through the rows of fallow plant mounds, and chuckled at this:
Once we exited the Jardin and entered the concrete jungle, the happy birdie vibes soured. Outside the park gates, my attention was caught by a fracas in the branches of a tree across the street. I watched confused as one gray pigeon flapped madly, tumbled between branches, then fell through the air topsy-turvy, until its small form slammed to the roof of the car below it. It twitched for a few seconds then stopped.
Katia and I looked at one another with horrified expressions, and then at the opposing windows for the pigeon sniper. No bones. So, as any blasé modern-day city-dweller would do, I started snapping photos, while other blasé witnesses grinned, apparently more interested in my photo/cellphone contraption than the morbid subject of my photos.
Comments
The photo, has, however, brought such morbid joy to my study break this evening! You are channeling Edward Gorey methinks....
enchanting story ma belle. love.