The street was unusually still for a Monday. Or maybe it wasn’t—maybe it was just me, walking slower than usual, drinking in the early June air like something sacred. The kind of morning where the world feels like it’s been freshly ironed. Soft heat clinging to skin. Leaves whispering. Everything green and pulsing. You’d never guess a million people lived just beyond the trees.

I live next to the city’s lungs—its last wild breath. The park is massive, almost arrogant in its sprawl, old enough to remember horses, wars, and things nobody writes down. It’s a good place to disappear into. It lets you pretend the world isn’t on fire for a bit.

So I was walking. Mind mostly empty. Not checking my phone. Just… being. Birds were making happy chaos in the branches, flowers doing their weird exhibitionist thing. The kind of morning that feels almost smug in its perfection. You start thinking stupid things like, maybe the world isn’t so bad.

And then I saw it.

At first I thought it was a crumpled bit of newspaper, or maybe someone dropped a glove. But no. It was a pigeon. Or what used to be one.

The body was intact. Wings folded like it had tucked itself in for a nap. But the head was gone. Not torn—gone. Clean, sharp, precise. No feathers scattered. Barely any blood. A kill like a signature. Not a kill of desperation. Not hunger. Just… intention.

I stood there staring. The way you do when you see something private. Sacred, in a twisted way. Something that shouldn’t be interrupted. Like stumbling onto a shrine.

And then I felt it. That feeling you get when you’re being watched.

I turned, and there he was.

Cat. Perched like a statue under a crooked tree on a hill of wild grass. Big golden eyes, locked on mine. Silent. Still. The kind of stillness that feels like it’s holding something back.

We looked at each other for a long time.

“You?” I asked under my breath.

He didn’t flinch. Just started licking his paw, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. He purred. Loud enough for me to hear from where I stood. Then, finally, he padded over. Rubbed against my leg like we were old friends. Or accomplices.

I scratched behind his ears. He leaned in. His fur was sun-warmed and soft.

“You’re not even hungry, are you?” I asked. I had a can of food in my bag—I always carry one, just in case I run into someone’s stray. I opened it. Offered it. He sniffed, then turned away.

Not interested.

The message was clear.

This wasn’t survival. This was art.

And I respected that.

He lingered a bit. Sat beside me like we were watching something invisible. Then he wandered off. Vanished into the undergrowth like a dream ending.

I walked on.

There was something different in the air now. Same sun, same birds, same breeze—but something had shifted.

A reminder.

This world, no matter how soft the light, no matter how sweet the birdsong, still belongs to predators. Still runs on instincts older than language. There’s no real peace, not really. Just temporary ceasefires dressed up as mornings.

I walked slower after that. Watched the trees more carefully. Watched the shadows.

That cat didn’t just kill a pigeon.

He left a message.

And maybe I’m the only one who got it.

Some mornings are just mornings.
Others leave teeth marks.
Stick around. I tend to write after both.