Winged Ones

Between two cars I saw half a pigeon alive
it had been sawed or otherwise butchered
it walked - perhaps like the headless chicken
but balance was still there - and there was no
frantic beating of wings.

Shocked, I walked on.

A month later I helped a frail woman
up from her falling and as I grasped her
arms the flesh came away in my hands
like peels of strawberries the derma
coated my thumbs and the horror my mind.

Shocked, I stumbled on.

I rallied myself and my leaking soul
onto a cement platform in the middle
of a settlement in the south a plateau
for the weary at midnight, without the
plaguing noises and clashing egos.

I eased into the night.

A white dove descended over me and
landed on the nearby telephone pole
in pitch black I recited a Psalm lest
this be the angel of death himself
and if I recall
it was 23.

I'm not ready to go.

From my screen I lift my eyes and see
what appears to be a bumblebee
flapping and fluttering
10,000 beats a minute wings
silently buzzing
into the room I inhabit.

I look closer to see
it is a moth opting
for the ceiling's hole to slumber.

With the staff I jostle
gently and sway it out into the heat
but to its freedom.

Surprised, I move on.

In the bus another moth did fly
beating down its shadow against
the glassed window. Tapping the
man in front would he open
the thin slide glass above him
and partner with me for a good deed.

Though the winged one didn't
hear the whooshing signal
as it was cupped in velvet darkness
of 2 shaking rumbling hands
still its chances better in a field
of squash and lemons, than in aluminum.

Released it sped high
with new found infinity
and in the wave of its breathing
a pulse, a place, a shared space
we embodied the dance of seekers
with momentum and prayer
in search of the Light.