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The Pigeons
by Carole Buggé

They coo outside my window, bulky brown and white bodies
huddled together against the coming cold
as the slowly descending frost glazes the window panes,
cutting them off from the heated building
They strut and puff their feathers
prowling my air conditioner
mottled black and white with their droppings
The pigeons coo and chortle their love to each other
well, not love perhaps, but close enough:
their longing, their need for another mottled brown and white body close to theirs
a coming together in the face of a quickly descending frost
And what if it isn't love; does it matter
What's in a name?
Call it what you will
The pigeons only know they must coo, broadcasting their longing to the waiting wind,
perched atop their remote metal mountain ledge
dancing in the weary winter sun
Nature asks no questions, nor answers them.
And I lie here with you warm and soft beside me,
perfect and white, your eyes soft as feathers
I coo, my love; I swoon
Open your wings


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