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Dead Pigeon

It survived the night and then died between 8.00 and 8,30 a.m.

Poor pidge.  Feeling gutted.  Probably disproportionately so for a bird that I never knew existed as an individual prior to yesterday afternoon.  Still, we can’t help how we feel about things can we?  They are the one thing that will keep coming, and for free.

The kids had a name dispute as well.  One favoured Miss Sippy, the other Sheila.

RIP Miss Sheila Sippy.  Now I’ve got to break the news to the children.  I think I am going to cry.  My sunglasses are already on in preparation.  If there’s one thing I am already well-versed in, it is dying quietly inside.

January Sea Front


I climb the cliff with
The strong smell of frying
Above under the arches
As Dayglo lycra skeins by and
Seagulls captain small boats
Going nowhere
And white down
Swirls up
On the eddy of air
From the fresh squish
Of pigeon breast

Rooftops Haiku

A pigeon hangs tough
Chimney pot dipping, tipping
and fanning his tail

From Luigi FDV’s Flickr photostream here