Having spent a few moments admiring my NZ spinach bed:

Liv’s chillies:

Mama’s grapes:

And my Hawaian lettuces:

I heard myself pontificating on how few marauding pigeons there were about the place these days. I surmised it must be due to the psychic reverberations through the ether after my having caught and killed several birds, slicing their breasts from their bodies while still warm in my frenzy, before frying them in butter.

At that moment, a faint fluttering to my left betrayed this fiend sitting on a single egg:

And then, incredibly, on my right, though more difficult to see, another of the same ilk keeping a couple of scrawny chicks warm:

Both are within easy reach … is this a test?