The cars stop for little convoys of waterhen. They wait until the inevitable stragglers jump up to the footpath.
Most cars stop. Bloodied and crushed feathers lie in the middle of the street.
One little black chook stayed behind with her. It prodded her, and circled round her. Waited, puzzled. Then waddled off to the footpath. Broken, too.
Don't tell me a bird doesn't grieve. Ask why you need to tell me I am projecting. What humanity have you lost if you need to remind me I'm only imagining? Have you lost less than that driver who didn't care to stop?
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