A fine morning and the side-streets empty br then turning the corner, br in the middle of the road br a pigeon - grey-mauve, plump and feather-perfect, br one wing half-spread in flight, br sprawled sideways, br dead br br and at that moment the sun shone br cruelly br on the blood that shone on the dusty road by its head, br a jewel, redder than any red, br that shone like a message br as if it were the blood of the world itself br so rich, so rich... br br and I felt guilty br that I saw it so beautiful, br that jewel from the heart of a dead dove br of peace, br and thought I should suppress the thought... br and, now, that further thought which hovered in its train br that this whole world in such a jewel of blood, br more precious than a ruby, or than gold, or much fine gold, br a jewel beyond price br is what a devotee at communion or at Mass... br br while cool reason br (what has reason to do with this?) br countered br well you value your own blood above most things br don't you? Why not a pigeon's? br br but all words spent and poets silent and associations dropped br and thoughts at rest, br that pool of blood br in the winter sunlight that shone on the dusty street br was just so beautiful.