Two smallbirds by a bus stop shelter, almost arranged, laying beside a home-made cross. A pieta of avian death, avian flew, small dead birds on the cold grey ground.
Did they fly before they fell? Romeo and Juliet, or two brothers Icarus? Why the bus stop? Were they waiting for the bus that never came? Did they fall off a statue? Did they get hit by an airplane? Why dead? Why now?
And, Who put the cross there? Did the cross precede the birds, or is it a tribute to the fallen? Impromptu or weeks of work?
Finally, How many people have waited here without looking down? How many passers by have passed by without being moved by the sight of two small birds and a cross? And how many bus riders have glanced down and seen them, thinking of the birds hours later while eating or half asleep? How many lives have these birds changed, in some small way, like a butterfly falling to the ground?