I see the birds.
They swoop in gentle arcs, all grace and streamlined elegance. In flight their voices remain mute. Once nestled on a rooftop here or a hesco there a stacatto song erupts, call and response between a dozen of them. Some are small, chikadees or some wren species. My favorites are the swallows. Of course there are pigeons.
No matter where you roam on this green Earth, I’ll be damned if you don’t find pigeons.
Never still quite long enough, I feel they are out of reach. Of course, up so high and capable of flight they are literally out of reach. I mean that even knowing them is out of reach. They exist; I know this. As quickly as they flit in and out of the bounds of my current existence, the razor wires and makeshift walls, they might as well be shadows.
Their shadows roll into other shadows. Night comes again, cold and intimidating. The moon grins thinly, a wan promise of what might come from the darkness. I should sleep.
I only watch and miss the company of the birds.