The Pigeon

(The following is a true story. Well, mostly true.)

  It was a warm, autumn evening somewhere in the back half of last year. I had sloped off early from work after losing interest and since there was money in my pocket and the day had been unaccountably sunny, I decided to treat myself to a bag of fish and chips.
 Almost as soon as I took my seat on the harbourside the birds arrived, strutting back and forth in front of my seat, hunting for scraps. I ignored them, too busy working my way through my latest paperback while my right hand dipped periodically into the paper beside me and fetched out another greasy morsel.
 And then for some reason I looked round.
 One of the pigeons had, unnoticed, hopped up onto the bench and sidled towards my bag of chips. In fact he now had a clawed foot on the paper itself and was contemplating my chips hungrily.
 For a long moment we stared at each other. Me, somewhat affronted by his impudence. Him, calmly awaiting my next move with studied disinterest.
 I slowly extended my right arm until it was almost, almost, touching him.
And gave the cheeky, feathery sod The Finger.
 He flapped away sullenly and I returned to my meal. But I still see him around sometimes.
Staring at me with his beady little eyes.
 Some birds remember that their ancestors were once lords of the earth.
 We both know this is not over.