Electrocuted pigeon falls from sky into residential area. That's not one you hear every day. I guess it’s not quite as newsworthy as a tipsy Italian cruise ship or the latest greatest terrible Hollywood sequel, but he haunts me. Have you ever seen an electrocuted anything?
Picture this: A soggy, water-logged family, sun-burnt and frazzled from a day tearing apart the lake. They pull up the home drive, desperate for bed, bath, passivity and motionlessness. But the command is given. Nobody does nothin’ until the toys get put away. Rusty, crumbly unidentifiable objects are bullied and broken to create a boat sized hole in the dank garage, as little effort expended as possible. And then, as the boat is settled into its misshapen berth, a loud POP shatters the air.
Not the car. Not the boat. Not the house. Each constituent of the little group takes stock of the world around them, observing what they had only see with eyes half open up until that moment. A frenzied fluttering storm cloud of feathers trembles beside the fence. Tottering and staggering like a drunk, reeling, the miserable pigeon tries to take flight. He flips painful-looking somersaults amid jolting unnatural convulsions and tremors that toss his body like one possessed. The people look on, quiet, until he is reduced to an inert pile of gray.
I don’t know why I still remember him so well. Maybe I just can put myself in the place of someone who misses an ugly black wire while staring at the immensity of the sky.
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