Tuesday Afternoon, Santa Clara Station

I see fifty-four pigeons on the line; another lands.

In the distance, clouds gather dropping rain and cold.

Here the chill is enough, (two more pigeons land.)

Though their shoulders are hunched shadows,

(Another lands; one floats to earth, begins pecking.)

Not one seeks shelter.  One pigeon after another

Treads out the moments of my day. (There is a flurry on the ground.)

Far away processions and explosions parcel out doves.

Twelve birds, (but who's counting?) hidden in the lowness,

From their silence beyond the rails flash, to the power line.

Stephen Riddle