A row of ten pigeons on the edge of
A roof while balancing their perspective
They bob their heads to be more objective
A few of course are at their beaks for love
Two among them resemble a white dove
As they fly my poetry finds motif
On my flower a few are destructive
For few minutes I look and dwell above
Suddenly a crow joins them in the row
I too am taken a little aback
Activities of the pigeons get slow
In the focus of pleasure a slight crack

Both the pigeons and crow in our thoughts grow
It’s good that now the white pigeons are back