I've just seen a pigeon
In the heavy rain
Clinging on to
The surface
Of a sheer brick wall
I didn't know
They could do that
I was waiting for the fall
Was this fellah
The Alex Honnold
Of his feathered breed?
Or do they do it all the time
And I've just never seen?
He flapped his wings
Now and then to adjust his grip
But he hung right in there
With barely a slip
Then I saw it
He motivation anew
The bird feeder was busy
He was stuck in a queue.

An utterly Useless Tale

On a big round oak table in a living room, a vase, in its small crack, lived two house ants. They were sitting outside,  considering a box of matches on the tabletop.
“if the box was empty, I’m sure I could push an inch or two the first and said. “Yeah,” the other snorted.
A man came into the room, took a matchstick out of the box, and put it back on the table, this time by its edge, and walked out.
The first ant giggled and said, “If we both push the box, it will fall on
the floor, no one will know how it ended there.”
They traversed the vast expanse of the table, pushed the box off the table, hurried back into their crack, and laughed heartily.
They had been frightened
people usually **** house ants at first
sight. The man came back, saw the box on the floor, shook his head, picked it up, and placed it back on the table. Our ants were in stitches
They were tempted to push the box on the floor again
But gave it up, the risk someone could come in  with a duster
was too great
Back at their crack, they went to sleep

Behind a smile no eyes can trace,
Lurks a question lost in time and space.
Like wind that taps on walls unseen,
It whispers truths in shades between.

Beneath the clock that will not cease,
A silent ache begins to crease.
Not quite a scream, but more a sigh,
Like candles dimming as dreams die.

Its letter holds no ink nor name,
Just scars that time forgot to tame.
"When I arrive," it softly said,
"I’m just the quiet beneath your dread."

It bears no wrath, it seeks no cheer,
Just shadows where you hide your fear.
Like rain that falls in sleeping minds—
Cold... but real when morning finds.

Its message? Not the end, but this:
A warning clothed in emptiness.
That at the end of all your why,
There waits a truth that doesn’t lie.

Don't polish
your mirror
it sees you clearly-
without error

don't go out
to buy another
it's the same you
you can't court its favour