...the uneasy guilt of my voyeurism turns my head away as the man smiles at the tiny bird perched on his finger, its freedom only momentary as it is returned to the cage and makes a futile flutter within its confines, wings held back by the restricting bars until it resigns itself to captivity and settles on its perch. It reminds me of the people here that bird. For now it still tries to flap and battle against its imposed habitat but one day it will just stop, it will stop believing that there is anything out there beyond its walls, that a cage is the best it can get, and it will sink into the apathy of its failed rebellion and sit, passive, waiting for death to creep up on it and finally free it from its prison.
The ground beneath my feet is damp with the slight dusting of rain carried by the wind. Its delicate drops are whirling and skitting in the lamplight like a tiny, glittering shoal of fish, the wetness powdering my face as i walk on towards the alley that leads to the pub.