A single pigeon shakes its wet feathers

A single pigeon shakes its wet feathers

beneath a sputtering streetlamp,

like it’s trying to dry off the weight

of a day’s worth of gray.

The swarm breaks—an accidental riot

across cracked pavement, wings slapping

sharp spring air like unread messages.

They scatter, clumsy shadows in puddles,

rising, tumbling, then still.

That pigeon puffs, a ragged king

on a soggy throne, as if it owns the rain

and the damp cold that curls inside my coat.

I watch the city breathe in ragged feathers,

waiting for the light to hold steady, but it flickers.