A pigeon has fallen out of the nest above my door. When I leave the house in the morning, I notice a rustling near the lavender and rosemary pots at the top of the high stoop. The grounded bird is trying to secret himself, wobbling backwards into the winter bare sprigs. It’s clear that he is ill, his movements are rusty, his feathers are disarrayed. He will die soon, he is shitting out his last hours here on my steps, dragging his own feet through white and green smears. I look down at his greasy head, his red eyes, and I think for a minute to put him out of his discomfort. But no, I can’t be bothered, I don't feel empathy, I feel a vague, edgy disgust. I’ll leave him there for the cold to take him, or a neighborhood cat. When I return home at night, he is gone.