I always wondered why you never saw very young pigeons.
Just where were they? Where could they be hidden?
Then one day stopping at a traffic light
on the Expressway service road,
I looked over to my left and up. There, on a ledge
of the overpass, were a crèche of baby pigeons:
hatchlings and nestlings and fledglings
and some adults landing and taking off.
Today as the boat docked under gray skies,
as I shuffled in the midst of my commuting flock,
I spotted a pigeon perched on the edge
of the opening in the metal plates
above the gangway, next the greasy chains.
Were there squabs hidden in there too? I thought.
All the way home on the bus from the ferry,
the words visible, invisible,
manifest, hidden, overt, covert
kept turning up in my day-weary mind;
and conjectures about how many things
develop out of sight – like poems.
* * *
(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2012