Between the flat
and cramped Chicago
land
and its nameless,
unclaimable skies
(whose cerulean blue is
likely thick enough)
swim
pigeons—
battalions
of them,
gyrating
meticulous,
purposeless loops
in a manner
far too
light
to consider
dirty—
slow,
then gently faster
joined,
then bursting wider
wilder,
farther—
allegiant to nothing
apart from,
perhaps,
the surging
invisible
currents of air
which instruct them
equally
through support—
and inhibition.
