Crested Pigeon
I remember you in your numbers the run
of you down our long dirt always gathering
near the
cattle ramp under the ancient
pines old wood drying out splitting centuries
in
half That sweet crested head eye a pink
diamond beak a pencil mark Your wings
bronze
hands cupped around your graphite
body air whistling in your feathers when you
lift At dusk you sit on oval saucers thin
twigs barely laced two of you just
above my
head in a casuarina its green shady as your
memory Was it something I
said?
love th eline 'old wood drying out splitting centuries
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