Trading Places

The cool morning was delightful and quite dreamy; tacked against a-freshly-painted bench of gray, I was enjoying a deliciuos breakfast: bacon with eggs and steaming, hot coffee... The unhesitant, slender pigeons came quickly around, cooing with relief, with an icredible joy in their weary sound, to feed on the breadcrumbs by the birch tree; I wanted to show them a bit of my generosity, giving them most of my toast, which never goes to waste... And as they slowly sorrounded me with genuine amicability, their sunken,sad and pitiful eyes sparkled with thankfulness; some staggered, like toddlers, on their feeble feet as hunger and age were a display of an undeniable misery... I did not see any trotting babes following them closely; they surely waited in their cosy, comouflage nest: unseen by predators and hunters alike... One courageous and dashing pigeon fled to my left with an hysterical craft, slightly sweeping the dandelions covered with dew and yellow pollen; asked for more food with a convincing coo... And though my breakfast was truly humble, enough to make them desperately fumble: my only reward was to see them eat, willing to feed them on those Sutarday's mornings and make them my lttle companions; but to feel their hunger and need, I have to trade placed indeed...