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Outside our building, on the grass verge
They assemble, always at it, picking at crumbs,
Grey as weathered tarmac, humbly
Getting out of the way of passers-by.
It strikes one they insist on using their legs,
And have different tempos tailored to suit,
Casual to hurried, before as a last resort
Breaking into flight as master aviators.
In the air, with conceptual ease they wing
With rhythmical smartness, to alight
Thirty feet up on a branch or roof-edge,
Resuming business in a swift descent.
The interim flight we humans call of fancy
Gives us such wings, like pigeons we attain
The heights; but return to the humble rate
Of legs to transport us to the dining table. |
