right there under the sycamore tree.
My pink pigeon-toes slowed me
to the shuffle of bandaged feet.
My grey pigeon-wings felt heavy.
Out of my small prim beak
a low churring quavered. My pigeon heart
yammered against thin ribs. I grew alert
to hawk-shadow, learned
not to move a muscle. Could scent
a fox at forty paces.
Life became one long fear.
I went back to that sycamore tree
counted the winged seeds falling:
they lay in clusters on the dusty ground
like hopes in waiting.