A small blue bird soars above the crowd, flitting between pedestrians to the other side of the street and back again. Strangely, the kingfisher hovers near any interesting conversations, as if it's listening in. It alights on the railing of a stairway, head cocked to the side. The moment the conversation trails off, it moves on. It never stays long.

Even discounting its eavesdropping, perhaps the strangest thing is kingfishers don't belong in cities. They belong on the water. In Europe.

The bird scans the street below before dropping down on a trash can just off the sidewalk. It sorts through the slim pickings on top before shaking its whole body, as if offended by the selection. It's all soda cans and beer bottles. Useless. It begins preening itself adorably instead, beak thrust under a wing.