and the pigeons, they fly
this uncanny path
swirling and turning
making eights, from where I stand
it looks as though
they are a group
it looks as though
they trust their flight
it looks as though I was one too
but maybe not,
for I have not wings, but hands
and the pigeons, they fly
happy as they sway
against and then with the wind and up
and down some come, while others replace
and yet the group
looks uncouth in its grace
they are stupid you know,
pigeons, they are
I don’t understand why,
but they never befriend an empty house
an empty court or an empty roof
they always seek a place to stay
as near as they can
to where we human do
they group and clutter and
noisily squatter
and never shatter this infinite loop
I wonder why they never ever
seek peace far from us
like we ourselves do
what is it about these lovey doves
these stupid birds
these flighty puffs
maybe we need their constance,
their company
to remind us that not everything
needs to be reasoned too
and the pigeons, they fly
in the same given symphony
some things don’t change
like we humans do
some things don’t evolve
the same way at all
maybe we need to let it be
because the pigeons will fly
whether or not we agree
