April ����
Pigeons
As the day star rises over a frozen field, kissing the roofs of houses, the barren limbs of pin oak trees and the long arm of the church spire reaching toward the wintry sky, I can’t help but think of the rock pigeons we saw huddled wing-towing early last evening, on two ropes of electrical wire. We passed by them so quickly, I only glimpsed these dozens of dozing birds, though long enough to note their cozy coexistence, their companionable willingness to keep each other warm. Heads tucked into their necks, their chests puffed like rising pastries, most slept but a few, perhaps keeping watch, remained vigilant. Like twin strings of black pearls, they enhanced the beauty of the bright firmament that would soon fold them into its purpling light — their little bird hearts beating as one through the cold, dark night. — Terri Kirby Erickson Terri Kirby Erickson’s most recent book of poetry is A Sun Inside My Chest.
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
PineStraw
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