Checking on the weather prospects this morning, I opened the bedroom blinds to what was, at first glance, a confusing sight, until I realised what had happened.
The bedroom blinds open
onto a bland, grey morning
with what looks like snow on the street;
a remarkable feat for July.
But a bowling length beyond the fake blizzard
lies the pigeon,
whose showered plumage is scattered
like the aftermath of a wedding.
This unhappy union of car and carcass
was soundless under this morose sky.
A light breeze softly shifts the whiteness
from the road to the grassy verge
beneath a tree,
where a lonely pigeon waits.
© Wally Smith 2020