The pigeons on my windowsill:
I never meant to make an altar out of my windowsill.
But there I was, every morning, spreading seed
like a prayer I didn't know I was saying.
Ten small bodies lining up—
the world's most fragile choir.
White like fallen clouds, red like warm clay, grey mottled like
thunderstorms that haven't learned how to break.
the runt, the tremble, the crooked-beaked little heartbeat
who looked like he'd been assembled in a hurry
by hands too gentle to finish the job.
He was never afraid of me.
I came home to a scatter of feathers
to a stillness that didn't belong
kneeling over a body that should have been a sky.
hunger could be answered by a human hand
reaching through a window.
And now the garden is too quiet.
And he has not come to tell me that he is alive.
And I don't know if the feathers were his.
And I don't know if he slipped free
on the last syllable of the wind.
wings bright with terror,
beating the air into a promise:
My hands shake with guilt.
soft seed on a windowsill,
a heartbeat trusting yours,
and the sudden, awful knowledge
that you cannot keep anything safe,
no matter how gently you hold it.
I will still put out seed.
Because my love is not a cage.
And my kindness is not a trap.
And even in this unforgiving city
something beautiful might still happen.
the way the morning waits for light
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dailybridgerton
