It's scary realizing that you don't know where you'll land when falling is all you've known.

Condensing from moisture; millions of voices coming together into one: the sudden pull of gravity. A new alien experience. To fall and not know what falling means, but be tied inexorably to movement in one direction.

A pressing chorus echoing in a raindrop; shouting abandon and adventure when the wind shifts and its blind exhilarating journey continues on a street, roof, statue, pigeon.

It's strange to long desperately to stay in one place after flying free for so long.

The bird barely registers the small drops that land on its feathers. Having gorged on stale french fries and giros it is content to watch two figures below. They huddle together sharing an umbrella; gesticulating infrequently. The wind shifts. A sleet of rain buffets the pigeon from its temporary roost to the roof of a nearby cathedral.

It's devastating and wonderful and painful and glorious... to see her walk away.

I am holding the umbrella for both of us. The rain doesn't register anymore. I move to cover her better when the wind shifts. It's a small thing, I know, but it's important.

She's telling me this won't work and my mind is on fire. It was a long road to stand here, now, ... but I am not really sure what she said. It's been a few minutes since she turned away and walked down the street. With clouds in my eyes I lost her in the crowd.

When I finally have the courage to look away from where she disappeared I notice my umbrella upside down at my feet filling with water. I laugh and rake an arm across my eyes. Looking up into the sky I let the rain fall on my face and laugh while I shake. I'm a cocktail of frustration and injustice: tatters inside a wet shell. The disheartening result of fate; the strong chance of something better driven to ground before it took flight by an unexpected shift in the wind neither of us saw coming. Still... I'm laughing.

I hold on tightly to the pain in my chest; the memories we've made. It's a small thing, I know, but it's important.

The pigeon pulls in its neck to settle down and rest on the cathedral roof. It falls asleep watching the figures on the street below: multitudinous; mysterious; forgettable; vibrantly full of life; those who, as inevitably as the sky clearing, drop stale french fries and giros.

A pressing chorus, singing its salty million voice song, continues its blind neverending journey.