Pigeons

At home we keep two pigeons- indian fantails named Serena and Houdini. A couple of weeks ago a weasel or something like it got into the coop and slaughtered the six we kept before. Decapitated, hearts torn out. Sunday morning, I came out, and no cooing, no thrumming. My oldest wailed in sadness when he came out to see me; I awoke my youngest with the news. So sad. Two of the pairs had chicks, one had eggs. One egg survived. It was horrible. I grieved to walk from the car and hear nothing at all, just seeing that empty coop, that avian murder scene.
But these two little sweeties hooked up nicely, and never leave each other's side. They nuzzle and do such romantic pigeon things that only a thoroughly sour heart could remain unmoved.

Now this.

Pigeons can, among other things, distinguish between Chagall and Picasso. I would call it vindicated, but I am feeling something. I am stirred.