pigeons

these pigeons,
what do they know?
what point
of view do they hold.
busy
with what?
their day full of pecking
at crumbs
we leave
behind.
grey winged,
black dolloped,
stone bead eyes.
hardly eyes at
all. what do they see?
how quick they dart
and fly.
their oiled feathers
tight
as jackets upon
their breasted bones.
how unlike
and like
we are, nothing
being what it seems.