Suburban Sundays in Ixelles, our neighbourhood in Brussels, wake up to the sound of little birds hopping in the trees and cars leaving with daddies and mommies to the golf course somewhere in Flanders. I guess, because I have never been there and I hate golf anyway. But today there were white feathers flying in circles by the garage doors. It looked like snow, but in April? I know that Prince sings that song I love, and makes me cry, "sometimes it snows in April", but still.
The dead pigeon was lying with bowed head and stiff legs in the middle of the pavement. And then, and then, the hawk came just out of the blue. It landed like a bomb. It took some more feathers away with its beak. Sunday was transformed. "Sunday, bloody Sunday", by the Irish band U2. That's how a suburban Sunday in Brussels can turn into a feast of raw nature.
I will never look again at the trimmed gardens of my neighbours with the same feeling of beatific awe. The hawk was beautiful, so was the pigeon by the way. No distinction of class, mind you, I tend towards equality, at least in terms of worth. The hawk had yellow eyes and strong feathery legs. The pigeon was all in tones of white, and gray, and blue, and beige. And its feathers twirled like snow in the morning cold of Sunday.
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