The clicking of my keyboard carries on like a quick walking, heel wearing woman. Muted ghost sounds of car horns, ambulances and voices careen from 6th ave and over the fence to my ears. So muted I could be hallucinating.

A family of pigeons migrate from the roof to the brick garden and back again. I have been thinking of pigeons since New York became my home again. They are doves, you know. They fly around in these cement boxes we call civilization, feed off of hot dog and bread scraps and weave in and out of traffic. They make these deep, primordial sounds at night. Sounds that churn up from their bellies; painful. I wonder if their instinct misses the open air and abundance of trees, or if they have just become animitrons of their former selves dragging their wire feet through cement gardens. These birds eyes look so jaded. They have surrendered to the inevitable. You can watch this chain crawl up the ladder to the carriage horses that stroll zombie like through these busy streets. Dry eyes, all of them. And serious faces. They have given up.

This picture of nature and over-civilization is disturbing to me. It is a metaphor so blatant that it has surpassed ironic.