I stared at the pigeon for a good half an hour or so. The autumn sun was lazy, and so was I. Sitting on the bench, watching the waves in the canal bob up and down can be a mesmorising experience.
The pigeon floated toward me, and then away. And as if my eyes attracted the pigeon as it rode up and down with the waves, it floated back toward me again, and danced around my feet.
Its feathers weren't wet from the water, and the pigeon seemed so light and innocent. It's legs kicked in the water, as bloated chest faced the sky, in a posture reminiscence of a mating ritual. A shy coot came and mischievously pecked and pulled the pigeon, but the pigeon didn't budge or stir.
The pigeon just floated on the water, deep in sleep, its eyes closed, white and bloated after having caught death.
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