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saintlebowitzPoems
I never realized How many birds There really are They seem to melt Into the landscape As they hop To and fro In the manicured Suburban shrubs And pepper the sky Floating in place Against some unfelt Wind current While walking I locked gazes with A slate colored dove And we stared I don't know how He felt about me Or what he felt About me I thought he was Elegant Even though he was The color of fresh tar While it bakes In the Pennsylvania sun In some hazy culdesac In the corner of some Replaceable Reproducible Childhood He hopped off his perch A rusty sign post That had been bifurcated By some unknown Bolt or hand And skittered behind some Sickly looking ferns In a dirt patch of an Unknown neighbors yard A gang of Robins Flittered over my head Landing down the street Passing a pinecone Between them Pecking and tearing at it I looked behind The sickly ferns And found the Unknown neighbors cat Doing the same thing To my slate colored dove I shooed it away It dropped the dove Hastily In the loose dirt And retreated I looked down at the dove And it laid there Its breast heaving Silent One eye cast into the dirt The other looking up Watching the same Robins Fly back to where They had come from And the slate slowly Turned sanguine As its down became Saturated with the Run off from the Puncture wounds The cat sat off A few yards away Flicking its tail Calico and smug And I stood by The dove as The heaving slowly Stopped Ground to a Halt really And then the eyes Weren't looking At the sky or the dirt I finally felt That unseen Wind And continued On my way
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Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
Birds
I never realized How many birds There really are They seem to melt Into the landscape As they hop To and fro In the manicured Suburban shrubs And pepper the sky Floating in place Against some unfelt Wind current While walking I locked gazes with A slate colored dove And we stared I don't know how He felt about me Or what he felt About me I thought he was Elegant Even though he was The color of fresh tar While it bakes In the Pennsylvania sun In some hazy culdesac In the corner of some Replaceable Reproducible Childhood He hopped off his perch A rusty sign post That had been bifurcated By some unknown Bolt or hand And skittered behind some Sickly looking ferns In a dirt patch of an Unknown neighbors yard A gang of Robins Flittered over my head Landing down the street Passing a pinecone Between them Pecking and tearing at it I looked behind The sickly ferns And found the Unknown neighbors cat Doing the same thing To my slate colored dove I shooed it away It dropped the dove Hastily In the loose dirt And retreated I looked down at the dove And it laid there Its breast heaving Silent One eye cast into the dirt The other looking up Watching the same Robins Fly back to where They had come from And the slate slowly Turned sanguine As its down became Saturated with the Run off from the Puncture wounds The cat sat off A few yards away Flicking its tail Calico and smug And I stood by The dove as The heaving slowly Stopped Ground to a Halt really And then the eyes Weren't looking At the sky or the dirt I finally felt That unseen Wind And continued On my way
I regret not walking as much as I could
#death#nature#freeform
saintlebowitz
Written by
saintlebowitz
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
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