On the way back, the street insisted.
Cages passed from hand to hand. Birds shifted, waited, watched. Men gathered, negotiated, lingered. Nothing dramatic — just routine, repetition, memory at work.
Light broke the street into glare and shadow. Colour felt unnecessary. Monochrome held the weight better.
A rooster pressed against a man’s chest, alert and unmoving, looking straight back.
These are passing moments — unplanned, unclaimed.





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