Silver. How very silver, but somehow not like the element on the periodic table, nor like the earrings word by great aunt Priscilla. But like the most natural way of putting it. Like the most casual slang of a word. The silver is laced atop frosted feathers and fine freedom, atop glistening eyes, and tiny golden beaks. There are some places in which the feathers show an otherworldly luminescence, a shimmer of day in the night. Or of night in the day.
Often more lovely than given credit, as it seeks shelter in strange, structures, that look so much like the rocky faces of it’s ancestors’ roosts, yet the ribbons of water that cradle the endings of these ‘cliffs’ are now such odd, flat, grey strips of road.
It cocks it’s head to the side, the single feather of technicolour metallic, is almost hints of it’s roles in history, of the Victorian age slowly, skillfully, drifting into the age of industry, of messages to be carried. So, here we have the pigeon. A bird. But not only that, but part of a small, huddled row of shapes on a telephone wire, their heads tucked in, and their bodies shivering, as though they are a book club, discussing their latest read with such vigor, that occasionally their own clumsy figures wobble, and look downright foolish.
But I’m sure they laugh it off.
An those are my thoughts on pigeons.