
There’s a writhing pile of pigeons —
Not two or a few or a smidgen —
You can raise their clout, and call them doves,
But I’m glad they're not on the wires above.

There’s a writhing pile of pigeons —
Not two or a few or a smidgen —
You can raise their clout, and call them doves,
But I’m glad they're not on the wires above.


the heron stares at
the unwitting egret’s back:
unfond of flatmate?

a heron stands tall
at the branch’s end,
as if weightless.