David really isn't sleeping too well. His foot hurts and he's worried about his tax return. He hasn't read a good book for months, and he's thinking maybe he's been reading them wrong. Is that a thing? fuck, I bet that's a thing. He's ugly too, he often tries to imagine what life would be like if he were less ugly, quite a bit less, sort of closer to plain, he always tells himself to stop it. Some birds just hatch ugly, lots do, it's not important, although, really, the company line sort of sticks there. He breaths out slow, shakes his head and walks his ugly walk. He's waddling through London Fields, hoping maybe he'll see something, anything, in himself that he's previously missed. He pays special attention to his shadow. He doesn't really do mirrors any more, they make him sick; so instead he studies his shadow, that softer mirror, and surveys old footprints for clues. It's no good though. Deep down in his worm riddled guts he know's enough to know he's nothing.
Feet planted, David leaves his shadow for the sky, angling his gaze upward: and in the boughs of this huge nude tree that with but a few weeks will be dressed in soft greens, he sees a bigger-hearted bird content to just sit, relax, and occasionally drop wet white streaks to land in the hair of some lucky number passing under the branches.
Bikes whistle past, kids call their dogs and smokers pretend they’re not dying. Early spring in London Fields bustles, but not David, he just stares up into the tree. Wonder. Awe. His foot hurts, it does that sometimes; so eventually he urges it forward and follows it home. He could fly, but he'd rather not - it's a loping, ugly thing his wings tend to do, it's not so much fit for crowded parks.
That bird, he thinks, hobbling back to the bridge he nests beneath, why's it so easy for him? Once, just once I'd love to drop a fresh wet shit on some hundred-pound haircut. He wont though, not ever, he's just not very good at being a pidgin. It’s OK, he says, some birds just aren’t.