The Pigeons Have Flown Away.
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I am ever so very sad.
This morning, the many birds waited,
Nothing came.
I ran out of their food yesterday
Resolved to buy no more.
They danced on the roof of the table,
Twirling, as though viewing from a special angle
Would create the breakfast.
Then they left.
Some returned, in hope or desperation.
They found nothing.
I had promised her that I would stop.
I did.
I hope she is joyous.
The birds must think I'm mean.
And I am so very sad.
? J.
All Of The Birds Have Gone.
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Fluttery, cooing, warm, curious,
Heads tilted in bemusement as I feed them
They are lovely
The flash lasted no time.
Her leg and left eye were gone.
She saw
The bird table was a smoldering stump
And distant shards.
There were dead things.
Dead birds.
Oh.
Burning house.
Dead people.
Dead parents.
Her family would be dead, like the many birds.
They came to help her.
Sole survivor, they said as they tended to her wounds.
She screamed a no as they tried to take her away.
We have to bury the birds.
So, they did.
In the pain-filled Sunlight they dug small graves
Filled them with carefully wrapped small lives
To each of which she gave a tiny toy
A tinkly bell, a ball, a mirror, a little doll,
Something to take with them.
She let them take her away.
To a place with no table, no home, no birds.
No family.
Then she wept.
Okay, so I know which of us has been hit harder and who has suffered
more and who should be consoled and loved and given new life. I don't
care. I am still inconsolably sad.
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