feathers over my shoulder

The sparrows diving on my sandwich look surprisingly gifted, turning left and right and plunging up and down with the skills of an airliner pilot. Food is cheap, tables narrow and the proximity of the entrance doors to the station provides constant walk-bys and wind shifts.

Light a smoke outside and instantly attract dozens of inquiries. Take in some sunshine quietly and be sure you'll be interrupted once every two minutes by someone asking for a fag or a lighter. Train stations are what they are: crossover for hundreds, meeting point for some, parting spot for others.

The weather is uncanny for this time of year and I wonder if the global warming they've all been bragging about is real. Pigeons are at home on my table and the surrounding furniture, an eye out for bread crumbs and mayonnaise drops. I finish my meal quickly, drag on a cigarette out there in the begging realm and get to my train walking as fast as a non-parisian can.