for the birds

My wife almost ran over some pigeons and chickadees in the street this clouded morning. They seemed so dumb, waddling haphazard, in their own thoughts and awkwardly trying to occupy existence. Then, of course, I saw people crossing, getting out of cars, going through dooways that resemble dooways all over the world, weather-worn and remote, yet familiar like your own face. These people, like me, like the birds beneath nowhere's umbrella, a chill in the air from something imagined or remembered: I pointed out a dead pigeon in the road toRuby; she asked how I knew it was a pigeon; I told her why; she said it wasn't anything, it was nothing.