We have a bird feeder near our front porch (if you can call it a porch), and I refer to the birds, who seem to eat a lot, as pigs with wings. The Mourning Doves feed on the ground, and eat what the other little birds knock out of the feeder. In the icy snow, they leave a trail.

I walk through Union Station in Washington regularly, but I usually take the quickest path through the waiting and boarding areas. On this day, I strolled through the concourse instead, and happend to glance through the passage to the main hall. The hall is ringed with these guardians, keeping a watchful eye on passengers coming and going, from and to points unknown.

Going into the city, taken from the train, across the empty station platform. No one about.