The mornings are the nicest time.
The softest, sweetest.
My bed holds me close as possible while I track remnant trails of dreams behind my eyes …
So often the droned flutter of scurrying, new-day duties carry my mind up to your scrappy nest, or your fictitous body down to my favorite pillow.
-Where I cradle you.-
and you coo to me of your endeavors,
and how you feel about your family,
and what you discuss when in unison.
I get to ask you questions on aviation, hierarchy, and simple philosophy.
My nose pressed against your dusted feathers, perfect puffy fragile belly,
rapid fire heart.
Outside~ where you really exist you are poached, and purposeful, and street wise.
-A real city slicker.-
You will be the last to die. You who’ll consume anything.
Little piggy. Little rat. Little pigeon.
Oh, soiled, little dove, I want to know you.
I dropped to my knees when you perched on my screen!
Did you move in above my window because you sensed my loyalty?
My awe for and respect to you?
Your song makes me feel at home, in summer, on a fire escape, skinned knees hanging down, streets below.
Your hum is my vehicle of transport~
On your wings I wander light,
Inspired to create in your honor.