The dust motes in the afternoon sun

The dust motes in the afternoon sun

fall slantwise, through the window pane.

Just like they did, when day was done,

in my first room, through falling rain.

A pigeon landed on the sill outside,

a fat grey thing, its neck all green.

For a second, the years just died,

and I was small, watching the scene.

It puffed its chest, then pecked the stone,

just like the ones on the fire escape.

I remember feeling so alone,

watching it preen, reshaping its shape.

This window is different, new and clean.

But the light, the bird, the quiet view.

It's almost as if nothing has been

changed. Or everything, fresh and new.