There are pigeons in the terrace
I spend dawns with them
They watch the crazy lady
bend and stretch
pray to the rising Sun with folded hands
They walk along the railing
like waddling bow-legged old men
making chortling noises in their throats
'you think she's crazy,' chortles one
'you betcha!' says another
the white fan-tailed beauty couldn't care less
she preens aloof from the drab regular grey-blues
and i thank god no nasty pigeon-catcher
can get to her
down to earth
i sometimes find a pigeon hiding
and pick it up carefully
for a pigeon comes down to earth
only to die.
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