The Pigeon Who Wore The City

The Pigeon Who Wore The City

He stands upon the worn stone ledge,

broad chested and calm in his bearing.

Neck lit with green and deep violet fire,

as though the sky stitched colour into him.

One bright red eye surveys the pavement,

measuring distance and human distraction.

He understands the careless rhythm of footsteps,

and the sudden scatter of crumbs.

They call him common without looking closely,

as if beauty must be rare to be real.

Yet his feathers hold shifting light,

like oil upon water after rain.

Grey wings edged with quiet strength,

carry stories of wind between buildings.

He has flown through smoke and winter frost,

and still returns to claim his place.

There is no softness in the streets he walks,

only traffic, noise, and restless movement.

Still he lifts his head without complaint,

balanced on thin red legs of resolve.

He wears the city like a second skin,

dust and drizzle settled into his coat.

Nothing about him begs for admiration,

yet nothing in him bows to neglect.

When the afternoon light touches his breast,

purple and emerald ignite in silence.

For a moment he is almost regal,

a small monarch of concrete and sky.

Look longer and the ordinary falls away,

revealing the courage of survival.

He is not merely passing through,

he belongs to every rooftop he claims.

In his steady presence there is a lesson,

about endurance without bitterness.

About standing firm in crowded places,

and shining without asking permission.