They don't have pigeons here,
but there's eagles, crows, seagulls,
and wild chickens (at least,
that's what they're called).
Even after eleven years, I miss pigeons:
how they sounded soft, while I stomped
to somewhere I don't remember, how
they left elegant tracks in the snow
when bored with flight, and had eyes
that tricked me into believing
I had nothing to be afraid of,
so unlike a crow with a thief’s gaze,
an eagle scouring for prey
miles away, or a seagull ready to fight
its sibling for seven day old bread crust,
and if there's a point to this poem,
it's that I'll never have wings,
having dreamed of falling most of my life,
but again, it's all a matter of perspective
as long as I'm in the sky,
even if it's just my binoculars telling another lie.
Richard LeDue (he/him) currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba. His poems have appeared in various publications throughout 2021. He is the author of three chapbooks, with his third chapbook, “The Kind of Noise Worth Writing Down,” forthcoming in early 2022 from Kelsay Books. @LedueRichard