Came the Rain

Two pigeons flew beneath the bridge
where all the winter's refuse clings.
Beside the sedgy bank, spears of strap grass
leaned downstream. Knots of broken twigs and reeds
marked where the river's freezing rose.

Building a nest where the buttress crumbled,
the pigeons plied back and forth, pecking cress,
strutting about in their chin-wagging way,
shagging ribbons of dry grass in their beaks,
flying back with the doubtful, lumbering

take-off of heavy planes. I could see
their ridiculous red feet and the lorgnettes
they wear on their noses like librarians.
Green comets sprouted from the alders' wands.
I guess I heard some cooing—something called.

For a moment in the pause before rain,
their heads and shoulders shone—a riveting,
iridescent indigo, mantillas
of silk so rich I expected thunder,
castanets and stamping feet. It was then

they tweaked their beaks in a kiss, he mounted her,
and the weather changed.

Copyright © 2004 Pamela Harrison All rights reserved
from Stereopticon
David Robert Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission