Pigeons

These fucking pigeons,
always creeping into my writing.
It's about time I did something about them.
As if summoned, another one's flown in -
so now there are four,
clown-stepping around me, pecking at rocks,
standing up to the lunch crowd,
trying their luck with humanity.
Pigeons, endless pigeons, jerking about,
chasing and wooing, Benny Hill birds.
Then one pigeon arrives at my feet,
and stops.
And everything goes quiet.
With a pupil of ink dropped in a puddle of orange, it looks at me. And it just stands there, and stares, wide-eyed.
While I watch, the feathers around its neck slowly open, like gills, then ripple down its breast, as it shivers, or swallows.
Maybe it blinks
before the whole flock teleports to an adjacent bench
where suddenly there's bread (the girl's also quite pretty).
Ducks look on, confused.

It's nice, as always,
to be reminded that mine is not the only way of life that works.
Because they're alive, these birds are as evolved as any of us.
Pigeons, pigeons, quietly here,
mostly ignored -
but not today.
And as for infiltrating my work,
I think, because I can write about them,
I welcome them into my writing.