Pigeons make no nests.
Pigeons hunt for crumbs.
Pigeons are weary of cats
but seem oblivious to traffic.

Until one of them dies
in a puff of feathers
and leaves a tiny red splotch
on a scorched concrete of the road.

Here goes one life,
one life of many.
On life among countless others
seeking crumbs,
minding cats,
but paying little attention to traffic.

Birds must be mad!
But humans are madder.

Life is mad and deserves no other epithet.
Why does it make sense for a bird to die?
Why does it make sense for a man to die?

Why does it make sense for anyone to die
while hunting for crumbs
on a busy street
on a scorching day
even if paying little attention to traffic?

But the real irony
escaped me until today.
Today I’ve realized
that the bird was killed
when it was walking.

Walking to a crumb.

Now I understand!
We die when we find interest in crumbs.
We die when we stop flying
and start walking.