Pigeon (Poem)


It was 30 outside as I breezed down 121, on my way to the Fort of steel, endless noise, and exhaust to perform whatever society demands of me
The morning, the groggy gray sky, the flora, and the fauna were frozen in place by the frigid, first major front of fall--a stillness only, briefly broken and made moving by the occasional whisper of arctic air rustling the lightest of leaves & litter and resembling a ghostly gust from the underworld itself. 

While sowing my way through the stream of semis, Chevys, and SUVs, I saw that the sleepy skies sharply silhouetted street lamps, 
and perched along each bar bearing the bulbs were seemingly fixed figures--in the sense they literally appeared fastened to the metal itself by the way they didn't even turn their heads to acknowledge each other's presence.

The stark contrast between their mannequin movement and the mass motion occurring just 30 feet between made my mind to mull.  
Although in the cold, with their heads tucked into their very bodies like their turtle cousins, they looked as comfortable as they did cozy--probably more so than I did, 
with me knowing where I had to go and why I had to go there and knowing I couldn't do anything to stop it. 
And, this is even with my handy heat and snug seats.      

When you have a life where you're content even in the direct wrath of elements, where you've found peace over
a ragingly ravenous and scaredly scurrying mass just below you, where your meaning is to live in the sky to look down on creation, and where your worldly work wasn't assigned and designed to wring and warp you by killing your dream and your purp, between a man and a pigeon, tell me, who's the superior being?

From the Soul,

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