A random act of poetry.

of a feather

Dark shape on the window ledge,
a puffball, head tucked into its breast.
For the moment, it’s not a nuisance,
just a sleepy creature at rest.
Not “shoo,” not “scat,” not “get,”
it’s noble and sentient and streaked with grey.
High above the city, the king of birds,
on the ledge the pigeon rules the day.

May 3, 2008.

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