The birds who coo
I am purplish gray
with a fluttering wingspan.
with a fluttering wingspan.
My head bobs forward awkwardly
while my pale ash colored feet
clatter as does my gray beak
against the chipped gray
roof tiles. I rest on the roof's
summit. My head turns to
the right; it moves to the left. My caviar
hued eyes stare at, my voice responds
with my mate cooing on the top portion
of the cape cottage's gutter nearby.
A metal clasp is attached to his foot,
as one is secure around my right.
My mate and I are owned, but have
freedom to take to the endless sky.
We must take flight now. We have work
to do, messages to deliver, then journey home.
I am a homing pigeon. I live for destiny.
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Author's Note
This poem was inspired one day when I looked outside of my study's window and saw some pigeons walking on some neighbors' roofs.
Other stories by pam rosenblatt
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Nice poem. As I read the first few lines, I thought it was birds in the wild. Then you surprised me with the homing pigeons. I like surprises.
Nice poem. As I read the first few lines, I thought it was birds in the wild. Then you surprised me with the homing pigeons. I like surprises.
Thank you, Matthew!
Good poem, loved the last line esp. Faved.
I am glad you enjoyed "The birds who coo" and appreciate the "Fav"! I look foward to reading some of your fiction.