Carol V. Davis
Pigeons
I would like to believe
that the pigeons who greet me as
I round the path know me by now.
This ritual repeats almost daily
on my run in the park.Just past the eucalyptus
with the shedding skin, body raw
and bleeding, seeds thrown
to the ground in a fury,
the four birds land on the runway
before I turn the corner.
Perhaps my emblematic cough
has alerted them.On my approach they divide
into formation: two and two
on either side of the path
like attendants at a wedding,
gray suits a bit shiny and tattered,
as if worn once too often.When I stumble towards them
they hesitate a minute too long,
then lift off in a flurry, their sails
catching the wind.Do they remember me, as I them?
The one with a hint of white below
the eye, another with a black smudge
near the tail feathers.I would like to say I recognize the other runners on the path,
but that is not true.
My eyes focus only on the landing
and lifting of this private ritual.
Copyright (C) Carol V. Davis, 2006. All rights reserved.