A pigeon swoops from a rafter
daring the beady-eyed water to fly.
Cut in the slightest edge of wind and
pigeon feathers are useless
caught in the ebb of hydrogen bonds.
This pigeon loves the rush of city life;
He eats from the cornucopia of paper pockets,
lives in the cold yellow lights
and rides the traffic wind.
He tries the breast stroke, the butterfly,
an energetic freestyle looking up,
but what are wings if the sky is out of reach?
At first, I had the chance to save the bird,
right where the current runs close to the wall.
I could have cupped the bird in my hands;
He floats under Venetian bridges
and tries to warm an icy grip from his wings,
his little black eyes follow me;
The pigeon knows the water flows to the bay
and he curls into himself.
A strong shaking heart calms
as I walk away
a man in stripes rows off.