The most familiar of bird’s wings in the city is the spilt box from the chicken shop, gnawed wings by the dozen. I once saw an ‘after-work party beer n’ wings deal’ offering 250 wings in one box. That’s 126 animals. Seems weird. This neat wing, plumage intact, was perhaps spat out by a fox, and reminds me that birds are supposed to be able to fly, to have a fighting chance of survival.