A View of "Migration of the rock pigeon"

(During my daily commute, one building I pass houses a probation and parole office. This morning, I saw a young man waiting to go inside. I could not see his face. He was huddled in the cold, his breath surrounding his hooded head like a halo. He was hunched over, as though he were told he could never stand straight again, like his spirit would not allow him to be upright. This poem came to me as I continued on my way.)

Little bird sits songless on a stoop,
a carrier trying to find the way home.
No longer penned in a well worn cage,
he still carries himself like he’s cooped up.
He once soared with contraband underfoot.
Now the only thing able under his power to fly
are messages to the Signal Corp;
a bird now wired, tethered to the ground,
beacon clasped to his tarsus.
Clipped wings wrapped about his breast,
head tucked under to keep warm,
he waits to return to his perch,
warm breath in the cold dawn air,
the only clouds in which he can nestle.
He never looks at the sun
beginning to soar in the morning sky.

(c) 2012 - Tracey Morris, All rights reserved



Photo of caged carrier pigeons on the battlefield

found on the Billionnaire Chronicles website.