THE PIGEONS

John Grey

There are no songbirds

for what’s there to sing about.

Only pigeons remain,

in the rafters

or under the eaves

of every building in town.

There are few trees

and the intermittent crack of rifles

is enough to drive every curious

finch or sparrow or starling

back into the distant woods.

And an explosion can come

any time, any place.

Even the churches

provide no sanctuary.

Nor is the sky itself

safe from stray bullets.

Most measure wars

in the number killed,

the graves sprouting like crocuses

on battlegrounds more wintery

than winter itself

But some tally up the cost

by listening to what’s not there.

Ears attuned to the lark,

they hear only the

squabble-like coo of the pigeons

Amidst the war,

the dove of peace

is merely the dove

that knows no better.

image by Harry Rajchgot