The pigeon coos.
A soft sound,
the caress of a feather falling.
A tiny head,
and a scrawny neck,
the feathers are ruffled
and dirty black.
Around the currant eyes,
that dart and wander,
the down is grey with age.
And the pigeon cocks his head,
and it makes me laugh,
for the angle is ridiculous,
though the bird looks quite sane.
I think I hear almost a cluck,
of indignance? Mock anger?
The pigeon struts along the gutter edge,
his chest is out,
and the feathers almost bristle with rage.
It makes me laugh again,
to see this old fool,
the pigeon clown,
with his makeup and costume,
and his cold scaly toes.
This time he does not stay,
and my laughter drives him off.
He launches through the air,
and his shadow falls away.

Saturday 21st September, 1996