Like a Fish out of Water

I saw a pigeon drown today.
I didn't realise what it was, at first. We were looking out over Camden Lock when we saw a strange creature floundering around in the water. It was flapping its wings repeatedly, uselessly, like a child's attempt at butterfly crawl. It was too sodden, too low in the water, too franticly hopeless to be a duck. That was when we realised it was a pigeon.

I laughed a little. It was comically ridiculous, to see a pigeon swim. It was, so to speak, a fish out of water. The opposite, in fact. Then I was filled with an awful sadness. It was utterly helpless. Its tiny body floated just below the surface. Its beak was barely held above the water. Its wings grew weaker; they flapped less frantically. I pictured its poor pink feet below, clutching at nothing. I wanted to help it; but had no intention of jumping into cold London water to save the life of a pigeon. So we watched it drown.

It didn't drown immediately. It gave up, for a while, and just floated there, still and quiet, little pink beak held high, in vain. I wondered if, perhaps, it would try again, try and flap towards the edge. But it just stayed still, barely floating. Four black ducks sat stationary, several feet away, watching. Birds lack the instinct, or the intelligence, to save lives, it seemed.

Suddenly, a big white gull flew down to where the pigeon was floating. For the tiniest instant I thought it had come to save it. Then it pecked the pigeon's neck, several times, hard, and began to tear strips of meat from its sodden, ragged corpse.

The four black ducks watched for a few moments. Then they glided past, slowly, one after the other. Like hearses in a funeral parade.