Where did all the pigeons go
that filled the squares and window ledges?
Chased by feisty gull or crow,
stealing crumbs from sidewalk edges?
I miss each lead-grey wing
and every ruffled feather
that braved whatever weather
with throaty coos in Spring.
They kept the paved piazza clean,
especially right after lunch.
They could not be described as lean,
more like a Sumo wrestling bunch.
On pavement games in chalk
and raw graffiti smudge
they plopped and would not budge
and blocked us as we walked.
But now the pigeons all are gone,
like fabled ones called Passengers
that once eclipsed the sun at noon,
like darkened, cloudy barriers.
What poison made them die?
Or was it feral cats
that thought them flying rats?
We missed a last good-bye.