One must pay attention to the world,
For attention, like a morning fog
Soon enough gets burned away.
Direct your focus on these pigeons
Who not so much move
As disappear and reappear in increments
Like those first astronauts in black and white
Who romped across the Moon.
All small birds do this
As do wild animals
For to exhibit motion makes one seen.
And, in nature, to be seen is to die.
But, in particular, each pigeon
Is a masterpiece.
If Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe
And Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear and
Tennessee Williams and Yeats and Homer
And Ogden Nash and William Blake and
Jonathan Swift (and Milton, if you must)
Stood in a group, simultaneously
Reading aloud their works,
There would be an ugly cacophony.
So it is with pigeons. Do not see them in a crowd.
Each one can be garbed
In stark kaleidoscopic blacks and whites,
In soft russet piebalds.
Some wear sergeant stripes
And some unblemished whites.
Each in symmetry bilateral.
They are beautiful.