In the park, no one about
To feed them crumbled sourdough,
Or torn white Mrs. Wright,
Or Wonder buns, or chicken bones--
Which do get cleaned most thoroughly--

As I say, when no one is about
Except myself, a fixture now
In these recuperative days,
Pigeons--sometimes two and sometimes
Ten--settle into this small bush
With thrashing wings to maintain balance,

Settling deeply as they can
In among the gray-green leaves
To where November berries are,
Small red berries which they've struggled for,

Reminding me that pigeons were
Once a wild bird here
Amidst a wild abundance.