Click page 13
A bird shoots from under the stairs
as I'm stepping down into the airshaft.
It's a city bird, a pigeon,
but the rush of its wings, its fear,
brings back memories of hunting
for birds in brush, in pine trees,
finger on the trigger guard, listening,
watching, for a sign of avian life,
just like the blast from under the stairs,
a warning, perhaps, to stay away from a nest,
as I'm walking down, expecting no sound
except the hum of air conditioners.