A Perch in the Halo

A fat city pigeon decided the rusty conduit pipe directly above my forehead was prime roosting ground. It fluttered down with a dry clatter of grey wings, tucking its claws in right through the center of my spray-painted halo. The rare afternoon sun was finally warming the brickwork, heating the gritty soot and black paint into something pleasantly toasty. Every time the bird let out a low, bubbling coo, the vibration hummed right through the mortar and into my painted collarbones. I slid my dark shades down a sliver to squint up at its puffed-out chest. If having a halo just makes me an expensive bird perch, honestly, I've had worse gigs.