Lots of pigeons in Prague...
It was a language of wings and beaks,
and long migrations,
where the world is always warm.
It was cooing, and rustling,
and the occasional irritated flapping,
when an excited child happened upon them,
vulnerable when lost in their
(once) peaceful slumber.
It was the nest
I knew existed right on the other side
of my window, the one I could never
quite see, no matter how far I leaned.
It was the doves God painted gray,
who we called “flying rats”, and “scourge of the sky”
that sat outside my window,
head cocked and eyes curious,
pondering my existence and intentions
from the other side of the glass.
I couldn’t help but reciprocate their feelings.
Aged angels, silver on their faces,
they’ve come to live
amongst the sin turned flesh,
but their humility has had the best of them,
and we’ve forgotten who they are.
Their feathers rustle and their voices murmur
naught but comfort,
cooing softly to humanity
as we would a baby,
for, we are their children in a way.
I don't have names for either of them. Thanks for reading!
-Coral-
