I was walking south on the Avenue today and squinting from the reflection of the sun’s cold light upon the icy snow that still clings to the small plots of grass around the trees. A stream of people paraded past, all looking busy, important, and preoccupied.

I exhaled and caught the last of my exhalation swirling away from my mouth.

Suddenly, I heard the flapping of many wings overhead. The sound of many moving feathers cut through the cold morning air and, as soon as it started, faded away as the birds took flight over the street.

I looked up and saw the flock of pigeons—maybe 100 of them—create a moving ellipse. They circled once, then twice, their wings silent. Their shadows moved over my face and momentarily blotted out the cool, yellow sun.

My gaze came down and stopped upon a ventilation window down the street. Puffs of white condensation poured out from the slats. In the middle, a swirl of white smoke slowly unwound itself in the street. The circles, as soon as they were formed, began to melt away into lines before vanishing completely.