10

Dropped from above the birds shuffle to grab as much as they can, pecking away at the stale crumbs. Wrinkled hands crush day old bread, neglecting to feed people choosing to feed animals instead. Perched upon a sharp alcove, looking down at the world that disregards their existence. Windowsills jut from what would be an otherwise direct descent, giving texture to the smooth walls of the city skyline. Sharp metal fixtures are mounted on the little spaces where a bird might sit, where a bird might build a home. There is no home for them in sight, for this is our home. Humans own this space and those that fail to present value to this society must be deterred from this space. Life is a struggle and in our minds this is our place. At least in our minds we are, for how insecure would we feel if we thought otherwise? Society tells us a story, those around us perpetuate this story, but what birthed this story, these feelings?

Preconceived notions?

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