birds of par[ad]is[e]

April Thirtieth, Two-thousand Nine.

The morning sunlight is warm and gentle, and falls lightly upon the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. Known to be a perfect spot for slow, romantic walks, couples walk through just as they would at any other hour, graceful and meandering. The walkways take you beneath the sun’s rays, and where it passes beneath the trees it is just cool enough to remind you that the day has just begun, and that the evening is a long way off.

The wall that borders the park is accompanied by trees, shading the sidewalk at intervals. On the pavement a man limps along, his big, brown boots worn and dirty. His left foot is slightly askew, and the sole of his left foot does not quite touch the ground with each step. A crutch under his left arm, he leans heavily against it, using it to take the weight of the bag on his left shoulder. His right arm is held against his body- twisted like a broken wing. He’s balding, and his thick beard has jumped straight from red to white in certain parts.

The man’s eyes are tired, but he continues to lurch forward, making his way down the sidewalk to some unknown destination. His awkward gait attracts glances, but on such a beautiful day as this there are not many walking along the outside of the park. His day has just started, and it will not end for many hours still.

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May Fourth, Two-thousand Nine.

Pigeons are dirty birds. The rats of the sky they are, always swooping down and pecking about at scraps on the sidewalk. They are completely shameless, flaunting their insolence as they waddle forward, eager to pick at crumbs by your feet.

She wears a ratty red sweater, the worn spots in the wool highlighted by the rays of the setting sun. She sits with her legs to the side, and underneath her is a large black sheet, like a theatre curtain. Beside her is a pile of twisted, broken baguettes. One is torn in half, and chunks of stale bread fill her hands.

The pigeons feast on the bread she throws before her, flapping their wings and strutting back and forth. Their heads bob up and down, as do their throats as they gorge themselves frantically. However some are already leaving; gratified or bored they have had their fill.

Old and worn, she watches them. Pigeons are dirty birds.