I saw a pigeon hobbling on one foot. It had lost the other, somehow, or never had it to begin with, a birth defect. But in either case it had made the most of it. But what choice did it have? Do pigeons ever consider lying in the muck and giving up? Let the weather winter freeze him to the curb or some stray dog shake him in its jaws. This was an image I could latch onto; I put it down in my journal with no small satisfaction. It would end my day on a dour note. I could not have asked for more. Then perhaps tomorrow I wouldn't be so hard on myself. I am after all making the most of it. That is, how could I not be? Could I ever really lie sprawled out in the filth and let my flesh rot away? I don’t think I have the resolve to give up.
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