By Tony DeLorger © 2015
The sun did sting, on a summers morn,
when walk the street I did, for seasons joy,
and came across a flock of bobbing heads,
a gaggle of cooing pigeon pies,
high-stepping with amorous notes,
a mass of interchangeable nodding domes,
feathers like a bed of many colors, writhing.
Each passer by, the flock took flight,
their shadow cloaked that beating sun,
flapping feathers, escaped to lines and boughs,
their incessant chatter, ongoing,
and their mark profound before my steps,
in textured white small mounds,
sidestepped I, and passed them by, a furtive glance, goodbye.
Like a thrashing breeze they returned to ground,
cooing, prancing up and down,
like the street had come alive in rolling waves of feather frenzy,
and I, pleased for untainted clothes, no marble gifts,
journeyed on, stepping to shade
and ever looking upward,
per chance a wise friend's sharing.
The sun did sting, on a summers morn,
when walk the street I did, for seasons joy,
and came across a flock of bobbing heads,
a gaggle of cooing pigeon pies,
high-stepping with amorous notes,
a mass of interchangeable nodding domes,
feathers like a bed of many colors, writhing.
Each passer by, the flock took flight,
their shadow cloaked that beating sun,
flapping feathers, escaped to lines and boughs,
their incessant chatter, ongoing,
and their mark profound before my steps,
in textured white small mounds,
sidestepped I, and passed them by, a furtive glance, goodbye.
Like a thrashing breeze they returned to ground,
cooing, prancing up and down,
like the street had come alive in rolling waves of feather frenzy,
and I, pleased for untainted clothes, no marble gifts,
journeyed on, stepping to shade
and ever looking upward,
per chance a wise friend's sharing.
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