_Scraps. _

My favourite word, meal and quite possibly my will to live.

The smell of them waft up to where I sit perched precariously above a human food court, luring me like bait to where they sit.

I swoop down to collect the delicious treasure and slurp their gooey contents in a way that humans might find “grotesque” or “repulsive”. Luckily the judgy creatures barely glance my way— privilege of being a dove I suppose.

White, pristine and delicate, I am the symbol of peace, and yet, still too insignificant for these people to deem me worth a second thought— _no wonder wars exist._

Some humans feed me at the local park, my favourite being old Mr Willow, who gives us bird seed every morning.

However, today, a whole flock of birds arrived, nibbling up my precious treats, so here I am, forced to scavenge for the measly scraps that appease my hunger.

Things could be worse I suppose.

For example, I could be a _crow_.

The symbol of impending doom and despair, the poor birds can’t help their coal black feathers or menacing caws. _It seems racism affects all species._

Such deep and sophisticated thoughts for a creature with brain the size of a peanut you may remark, and yet _you,_ human are the one that believes I bring anything more than my own feces to the table let alone _peace_.

Now, I must get back to my birdly duties, duties being waste excretion as I see a human below that would look simply divine with my feces adorning their head.

Good day.