Nightbird

For two minutes and forty four seconds,
I watch the night, in its luminescence.
Heavy clouds twist, like so many dark ribbons,
Dark velvet punctured only by stars, clouds overridden.

Pudgy cats yowl in alleyways deserted,
Shadows confuse them, their pouncing thus thwarted.
A beer bottle crashes, from nowhere, it seems.
The echo dies out like a soft, faded dream.

I wish it was warmer, or that the wind held better.
The breeze whistled through my threadbare yarn sweater.
Shadows were approaching, completely unencumbered,
Fright started slightly in a pit in my stomach.

The time seems but ripe, almost tangible to pick it.
Ripe for all creatures to emerge from the thicket.
For ravens, wings glossy, and rabbits, fur soft.
For stray cats and dogs, their heads held aloft.

Though I feel alone in this fantasy now,
I see a strange animal along the ground.
Feathers of speckled grey, black and white.
It cocks and bobs its head, into the light.

It take careful steps, its orange eyes are wide.
A pigeon steps into the quiet moonlight.
And as I approach it, one finger extended,
It climbs on with pink claws, and upwards we ascended.

Shadows less menacing, moonlight less dim.
As on it clambered, tail fluffed, neck prim,
My cheeks were glowing with happiness.
A pigeon was exactly what I needed, no more or less.