Today we talked of pigeon holes exploding,
feathers and droppings everywhere,
an egg or two oozing on the wall.
What we have to ask is
can we pigeons pull off the phoenix stunt--
rise from the ashes as keen, hot arrows ready for home?
They put the homers on a turn table,
whirling round and round over strange roads,
until, at last, they launched them into air.
And the earth turns beneath us,
our own lazy susan, as we watch for
(or sense? or are drawn?) home.
The monarchs do it--second generation,
miles and miles to a land they've never been--
hundreds, like soft sparks from an explosion.
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