It was cold. The sun a mere disk
Of iridescent white;
a moon against the morning sky
No clouds. A funereal shroud
Thrown afar, rooftop to rooftop
Pigeons roosting on the satellite dishes
Taking flight, twirling and swirling
Crazed and confused.
Eagles soaring; smooth and powerful,
their outstretched wings
Cutting clean the frigid air
Knowing, with no sun; where to go.
The pigeons don’t. They keep turning round.
And settle back on the rooftop.
They hear everything in the streets
And behind closed curtains
And gossip among themselves.
Wonder what they heard today?
Whose wife cheated on him, who beat his kids
Who died of aspirin overdose;
Who loved, who lost; who struggled in the fog
That luckless winter afternoon.