Shifting Leaves

"C'mon, little guy," I whisper to the pigeon as it waddles closer to my outstretched arm. The other pigeons quickly tore through the little trail of bread crumbs which I made, this one's the only one brave enough to get close enough to eat the large chunk of bread that I pulled from my sandwich. He bobs his head a bit, deciding whether to take it or not.

"I won't hurt you." I say softly, looking up at the beautiful reds and oranges of fall as the golden sun slants through the painted trees.

The pigeon's iridescent plumage catches the light, gleaming and reminding me of the glorious summer that melted into this buttery autumn. I take a deep breath in, savoring the delicious smell of earthy petrichor that accompanies the leaf-strewn ground.

People stroll by, walking dogs or with small children running around their legs. The park has some sort of innate calm to it, like a drug that makes everything feel warm, nice, pleasant, perfect, and insanely happy. Here I can even drone out the noises of gunfire, traffic, and screams that permeate regular New Yorker life. I feel so peaceful, from the deepest corners of my soul.

Tentatively, the pigeon reaches it's beak out and nimbly plucks the crumb from my fingers, it flies away and eats it, leaving behind only a single purple feather and a few shifting leaves.