A cluster of pigeons occupied the concrete nearby, swollen and filthy in the way city fowl always are. Evolution had technically classified them as birds, though at this point they were closer to municipal side effects with feathers.

I finished a packet of stale crackers while they drifted closer in cautious increments. One settled near my shoe and examined me with professional disappointment. Reasonable reaction.

Urban pigeons are fascinating creatures. Remove enough predators and they begin carrying themselves like rear-echelon officers three weeks from retirement and four kilometers from actual gunfire.

Traffic thundered overhead while the birds gathered around my feet like they’d mistaken me for architecture. I tossed the last crumbs toward the flock and watched them descend on the food with the ruthless efficiency of an infantry platoon that knew hesitation meant eating last.

The story continues on May 17.

The Geometry of Choice: Book I of The Equilibrium Strain.

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