In Praise of the Pigeon (I.P.)
By Silver Spun Sand
- 4308 reads
With pizzicato feet
they peck about,
the livelong day,
in puddles of sunlight.
Purple-vested –
grey waistcoats;
busy-bodies...
gossips...
strutting
their stuff
as they poke
around –
beaks going
nineteen to the dozen
leaving no stone
unturned, no pile
of leaves, ‘unforaged’.
And for what?
They aren’t about to tell,
and whatever it is
they find...be it a twig
or a blade of grass
they would have
their partner think
they’d struck gold
for the sheer hell of it.
Evening drips
from the trees
verdigris shadows
blow, limpid
with the breeze.
Only the sound,
each to each
of liquid bubbles
languidly erupting
from feathered throats
as, contented,
they sit...one
next to the other
for hours it seems
then, in a blink
of an eye
they cascade
into the sky.
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Comments
pizzicato feet … and so
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Liquid bubbles languidly
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new Silver-Spun-Sand Hi!
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Hi Tina. The essence of
TVR
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new silver-Spun-Sand Wow!
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Hello Tina, Yes you
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Well said, Moya. We all need
TVR
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Must admit to not liking
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That says it just as it is -
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A beautiful descriptive
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new Silver-Spun-Sand Well
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new
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Good evening Tina, this poem
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Good evening Tina, this poem
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