Pigeons

Pigeons

That they manage to survive on one scrawny knuckled leg surely should give hope to the rest of us.

Shimmer shimmer iridescent petrol colour, oil slick on feather, always the survivor, lice ridden and hobbled. What’s good for you is good for me.

Strut strut, proud thing, coral legged, unashamed of the filth you are, the filth you are told you are. I am never what you think. The soft coo morning melody as the light seeps in earlier and earlier, pale waxing blue sky and always the windowsill call “I am still here, still here” vibrating in their throats.