The Adjustment

I pass the corner three times.

The pigeon is still there.

First time, I see it whole—

one wing folded under,

the feathers catching streetlight

in that iridescent way, copper

and green, the colors of damage.

The head is turned too far back,

looking at something behind itself.

Second time, someone steps over it

without breaking stride. No pause.

Just a shoe, the air disturbed,

and the walker continuing.

By the third time, there are

scuff marks around the body.

The concrete is smudged where

people have adjusted their steps,

corrected their paths, sidestepped

with the same small economy of motion

I use when I pass a puddle.

The feathers are duller now.

Or maybe I'm just not looking

as carefully. Maybe the iridescence

only shows if you stop and look,

and nobody stops, and I don't stop,

and the city learns to walk around it

without breaking rhythm, and

the thing that has already died

dies again with every footprint.