An icy, thorny wind rushed past the bleak wall against which a shivering pigeon was seeking shelter. The touch of the hard concrete against its frayed wings, its brittle and weather-beaten body, offered little respite. If anything, the lifeless stone intensified the cold. But the pigeon, like the people clinging to a nearby tram stop, preferred a physical, lifeless touch over the vulnerability of open space. In times of anguish, all animals need solidity.

A set of rusty tram tracks separated the pigeon from the waiting people. The squalid condition of the concrete, which must have been grey when it was mixed but was now smudged with black and brown, hid the no less grimy bird. The pigeon may have been a light grey squab, but its baby-feathers had since collected the indelible stains of city life.

It is no surprise, therefore, that the pigeon, similar to the wall in color, with its feet retracted under its body and its head tucked back into its scruffy featherbed, attracted no attention. This would have remained so were it not for the arrival of a certain youngster. Slanting his slender but thickly-wrapped body against the wall of the tram stop, the youngster initially did not notice the bird. The bitterness of the weather numbed his senses and forced them inwardly; he had gone into his thoughts like his body had sunk into his padded coat.

The pigeon managed at last to make its way into the youngster's consciousness, albeit through no effort of its own. The wind had simply shaken some of its feathers. The youngster observed the pigeon for a moment, then glanced at the group of people awaiting the tram. 

"Look at you, you poor, ill-fated bird, you're all alone in the blistering cold while those on the other side of the tracks, those who could help you, pay you absolutely no mind. If only you were a cat or a dog, then someone would surely have extended their warmth to you by now. But you have not slept on laps, and you have not been a family friend. Yet the cold hurts you, as it hurts us all, and you tremble as we all tremble. But what can I do? What can anyone do for you? You weren't made to be embraced…"

As if on purpose, the youngster's thoughts were interrupted by the approaching tram. He stepped inside, reluctantly at first, but glad to feel the tram's hot breath. He soon forgot the pigeon. It wasn't until later in the evening, nestled in bed among blankets and pillows, that the bird made its way back to him.

"You must be freezing to death, if you haven't managed to find proper shelter."

Guilt crept into him, mixed with pity, until the pangs accompanied the rhythm of his thought. 

"The warmth here would save you. But how could I have taken you with me? And who could have expected that of me? Taking a pigeon home in order to save it from the cold? Has anyone heard of such a thing? It would have been ridiculous.”

These rationalizations briefly relieved him of the twinges in his chest.

"I noticed you when no one else did, and I'm thinking of you now. Isn't that enough? And you're only a pigeon, after all. There really are so many of you."

He knew that the consolation was superficial, but he slowly let himself by carried away by it.

"Maybe it is enough that I'm thinking of you…"

He was falling asleep, and the pigeon was still out there—freezing, dead or surviving, suffering, like so many others.