In the milky sky above the square,
the familiar almost-equilibrium of pigeons
having burst from their fountain
at the gunning
of green light engines
now tickling the low clouds
in undulating ripples,
diving and swooping in hapless formation—
making me
feel restless; making me feel
small.
For a moment, I suppose
I would like to be
one of them—
but no, that's not
quite right, is it?
I'd like to be
them all.
