What the pigeons are presented with
I cannot muster much on the grey, windy days my ambition sits cold on the pavement, waiting to not be sitting on the pavement, the air stings my face, my knuckles. But I see a puddle gap in the stone making a splash bath for the pigeons three bobbing heads — and the restaurant scraps, some crumbs by the glass, gets them so excited. I cannot muster much mid-journey on a slate street but look at them humbling me with thank-you coos and feather puffs passing, paused on the same ground as my ungrateful feet. C. LJ Ireton 2025