A dead pigeon

There was a crow busily eating something with a flurry of whiteness around the meal; another stood guard. It was a two-bird operation. My bus had yet to crest the hill, which meant I had time to wander over, outstare the crows and check out the action. On the menu: rare pigeon.

Given the number of them, I have (occasionally) wondered why you don’t see more dead pigeons. At the other end of the avian life span I’ve never seen a baby pigeon. Then the bus came.