Pigeons always have this serious look on their face. Like they are always witnessing the world. Almost like that one animal that knows a lot more about life than we do, but is comfortable not participating in it, neither to save nor destroy it. They are just here for your bread, if you have some.

I often wonder if pigeons were in fact built for city life, picking a space, crowding it, waiting for the next piece of bread. A place where no one farms wheat, no one refines it, and those who make bread are making it for an opportunity to talk about it, or for the chance that someone might like the photo online. Yet there is always infinite bread to go around.

What do they think of us? Do they think of us at all? Do they blame us for their lifestyle, or are they grateful that they don’t have to forage for survival anymore?

Do you think they feel like they have paid their dues for the centuries they spent doing our bidding, transferring our intentions back and forth to each other?

Do they tell stories about the first human who tied a letter to their feet? What was written in that letter? Do they know? Did it start a love story, or did it start a war?

Cafe Brecht - Amsterdam

Photograph: Seattle WA