the ground around
where i am parked
is covered in
pigeon feathers
gray as the skies
blowing around
with the plastic bags
and scraping cans

opera plays loudly
an odd contrast of
class to the filth
perhaps the gray
feathers once were
festooned upon the
helmets of valkyries
the song of the
epic battle sounding
as the souls of the
worthy are carried
to the mead halls
preparing for ragnarok

i wonder about what
happened to the pigeons
there is no corpse
nothing smeared across
the potholed street
did it fly into one
of the many windows
or simply cease to be
vanished in a puff of
feathers the color of
the emotionless sky