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