This August morning started with greys and mists, sun orange behind clouds the warm light casting mild shadows.
Its early enough the sounds of cars, traffic and people are still singular sounds, muffled by their distance. I am at a stop at 12th and Lane. This stop is often busy with human services and care, by this stop is a small tent city know for its drug use, crime. Some are waking up, some are returning home, they are moving around, one lady makes her way to 12th, She doesn’t seem to know she’s on the street, nor does she see me, she drops her pants, her skin is blotchy, potted, she pees, then vacates her rectum a few yards in front of me. She cleans herself with a towel she tosses to the sidewalk. My door is open, I smell the garbage that’s littered, wrappers, beer cans, broken bottles, clothes. I can smell alcohol and the garbage in the air. A siren in the International district echoes between the buildings.
Crows are present, they have found stops like these offer foods for the day, materials for nests, a reason for territory arguments.
Two Crows look to be molting, they are skinnier than most, not a jet black, more of a light charcoal, feathers hang loose from their bodies unpreened, their movements are quick, they seem angry, they have found an orange needle the kind that is handed out by the state, they are pecking it. One goes to pick it up, the other pecks at its beak, the needle is dropped, the crows fight each other. Viscous, not normal territory squabble.
I had to ask myself, are they fighting over the needle for its drug?
They are rolling on the ground, talons out, pecking for eyes, one flutters away chased for a bit.
I close my door, continue south across the Rizal bridge,
I can see T Mobile Park lighted in Pink, in the distance behind, Puget Sound then the Olympic Mountain range rises above the park, its peaks are blue to white, to a soft glow of the yellow sun touching grey clouds.