Smooth Boy always looked up when I passed, it made it easier for both of us, no need for idle chat, just a quick nod, but that night he was looking down.  I followed his attention to a small bird standing motionless on the sidewalk.  The bird was close enough for him to nudge with the tip of his shoe.  It didn’t move, frozen in some sort of avian stupor.  It had cardinal red feathers, Zorro black wings, and a round little body like the fucking bluebird of happiness.

“A migrant,” he said, “from Central America.”

“A long way to go.” I stopped, because the bird was so outside my experience, because it was warm, and, for a moment, I thought I felt what normal might be like.

“It must have hit a window. They do that,” he said.

A fresh spring breeze pushed through concrete, urine, and smog-filled air.  He flicked his cigarette back to the curb, bent, and scooped the bird into his hands.

“It'll be dead by morning,” he said.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)