Winters in the Country
by A. Gautam
Sixteen pigeons
in our front yard
made our tree house
a happy place.
I watched the white feathers
leave a trail of cold wind,
as they flew by my face—
mesmerized in the balcony.
They would flap their wings
and descend to the big bowl
for a bath
precisely at noon—
when the water warmed up.
They wobbled around
the edge of the shiny bowl,
fluttered, slipped, and flew.
I watched their heads
move
back and forth,
slightly to the side.
Their bellies hugged
the cement floor.
They snuck the grains
I spread out for them—
faster than the blink of an eye.
Sometimes I hear them
cooing in my city dreams.
Countless pigeons in my city
fly over me.
I don't have time
to watch
their falling feathers.
