A Pigeon

A pigeon landed wearily on my windowsill today.
a cloud of feathers and dust,
a mass of flesh and bones.
He huddled himself and slept,
Framed by the rain and night,
His breast rose and fell softly,
One lame foot curled under him.
His feathers, ragged from years of wind and snow.
As I watched, he awoke, opening his eyes abruptly.
And there in the depth of those black pools
Was the agonizing pain of flying for hours in the harsh wind,
The clammy wetness of grass in the park,
The bitter taste of hard bread from the street,
The dulling agony of long cold winters.
So I opened my window to let him into the warm room
And he flew into the rain.