In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with birds.

Some mornings the pigeons arrive en masse and circle the rooftops over Washington Heights.

One minute the sky will be blank, and the next it will be filled with birds — somehow they move as a single entity — careening like a speed boat on a wide arc across the water.

The bridge watches this silent and passive but monumental, like a god.

The birds seem frantic, endlessly searching for something they will never find.

Except for this one, perhaps, who flies alone across the angry sky.