In Kepler plaza, beneath the ornate Viennese reliefs, city scavengers poked their tongs into grey metallic trash cans. On corroded green steel benches, ragged men and women lay lifelessly.

It had just rained. Near a muddy puddle on the pavement, a pack of pigeons fought over a long French fry. One black pigeon had it clenched in its beak, but he had picked it up at the wrong angle, so he couldn’t swallow it. He paced around awkwardly, the other pigeons trailing him, waiting for him to drop it. But he didn’t, and together they kept going in circles. 

Suddenly, all the pigeons fluttered their wings and scattered. In their wake trudged a line of tourists. Their shoes splashed through the puddles. The French fry was dropped by the pigeon in a panic.  

After a moment, maybe ten seconds, the black pigeon returned. He walked zigzaggedly towards the now muddied fry and swallowed it straight down. The other pigeons came late. They stood there watching him and then flew away. The black one resumed its roaming along the street, occasionally wobbling through the tattered pant legs of the homeless slumped on the benches.