A Pentecost of pigeons
perched in rows on
rolling fence posts
are spelling out a message
just for you in
Morse code.
It isn't a prediction
of the storm
before it happens,
or a forecast
of how many breaths
you have left;
it's the eerie invocation
of the purpose
of The Random—
of a sharp exhalation
and a little vague wind,
in the long run, amounting
to the very same thing.
This is what passes for
excoriating doom,
its communique
telescoping
over the horizon:
if you feared you'd be
hounded by fate
to ruination, the bad news
is good news—you will
get there
on your own.
