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It’s impossible to shake off the pigeons
from their dogged grasp onto everything,
the loft, the terrace, the roof-
the loft back again.
That blue-grey huddle,
that wooden whir always wheeling.
Nothing can make it give,
to leave and not look back.
Haven’t I chased enough ones to know
that a stone would only send them so far
as to half-moon right back?
Have I not wondered so much more
if they wouldn’t, just for once
in a long while,
surf the wind that blows
or perch on a branch or ledge,
not for anything else but simply because
they liked the way it caught the sun?
Is that what I should have done too?


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FOOTNOTE: I am never more inspired to write than when there’s a project deadline looming. Maybe I’ll write another poem… or maybe I’ll knit a stocking, who knows! Nonetheless, I wish everyone a happy New Year.


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