The shrill child's shrill cry rips through air, followed by the flapping of wings. The birds scatter into the air, then flutter back down to the ground a few meters away. The knobby cobblestones are still covered in seed, so they don't go far.
The instigator is a boy with a tousled mop of brown curls. He overhand pitches the seed into the air, the force of his swing lifting his tiny body off the ground. The birds swoop in again, and become his targets. He winds up a pitch, twisting his whole body backward, then flinging it forward so hard he spins off balance.
The wind tosses an empty plastic seed cup across the square. It makes music as it clinks against the uneven cobbles.
The boy's father calls for him. The boy empties his cup in one final flail, sending a shower of seeds over the feasting pigeons and a tiny girl in a pink jumpsuit who's toddled over to watch. She scrunches up her face as if biting into a lemon, and shakes the seeds off with surprising repose.
No sooner is the curly-haired boy gone, he is replaced by a smaller boy in a red hoodie and lime green beanie, and then another with spiked hair. The poor birds. All day long it's the same: Get in. Eat. Get out.
Spike has a future in track. He sprints after the birds, mouth agape and arms outstretched. What would he do if he caught one?
A man selling cay makes his rounds. His tray is loaded down with a dozen tiny glass teacups, the amber liquid steaming in the crisp winter air. In the middle of the tray a mountain of sugar cubes sparkle.
It's chilly. It will be dark soon, and the clock tower in the center of the square will be lit with neon orange and green. The birds will go to roost, and the children will be replaced by lovers, teenagers, and nervous couples on first days.
The plastic cup settles into a gutter, and I move on.
The instigator is a boy with a tousled mop of brown curls. He overhand pitches the seed into the air, the force of his swing lifting his tiny body off the ground. The birds swoop in again, and become his targets. He winds up a pitch, twisting his whole body backward, then flinging it forward so hard he spins off balance.
The wind tosses an empty plastic seed cup across the square. It makes music as it clinks against the uneven cobbles.
The boy's father calls for him. The boy empties his cup in one final flail, sending a shower of seeds over the feasting pigeons and a tiny girl in a pink jumpsuit who's toddled over to watch. She scrunches up her face as if biting into a lemon, and shakes the seeds off with surprising repose.
No sooner is the curly-haired boy gone, he is replaced by a smaller boy in a red hoodie and lime green beanie, and then another with spiked hair. The poor birds. All day long it's the same: Get in. Eat. Get out.
Spike has a future in track. He sprints after the birds, mouth agape and arms outstretched. What would he do if he caught one?
A man selling cay makes his rounds. His tray is loaded down with a dozen tiny glass teacups, the amber liquid steaming in the crisp winter air. In the middle of the tray a mountain of sugar cubes sparkle.
It's chilly. It will be dark soon, and the clock tower in the center of the square will be lit with neon orange and green. The birds will go to roost, and the children will be replaced by lovers, teenagers, and nervous couples on first days.
The plastic cup settles into a gutter, and I move on.