Tuesday 11th September 2001

The pigeon was nearly dead. It was resting, not moving. A group of schoolgirls had gathered and stood looking down at it. The shoppers were all busy in the precinct and didn't notice the schoolgirls or the pigeon.
The smaller girl had dark hair tied up at the sides and the back. She had a lot to say and her breath fogged the air as she moved. She took a step forward so that her shoes were barely an inch from the pigeon's breast. The pigeon did not move. It seemed so concentrated on its immanent death that it didn't see the shoes. It couldn't see them. The shoes made no difference.
None of the girls was laughing now. They were all watching the shoes and the pigeon. And the pigeon was almost dead.
Then one shoe pushed forward.
The pigeon made a small movement, then, as the shoe kept coming, moved off to one side. It tried to settle, but he shoe kept coming. The shoe itself was barely moving, but it kept coming.
The pigeon was ready to die, but it could not die now. The schoolgirls followed it, pushed their shoes at it, gently, not spitefully, and kept moving it on whenever it settled.
The pigeon wanted to die. It was ready to die, but it had found its way onto a shopping precinct.
The pigeon's eyes kept closing.
And opening again when it couldn't die.