Roosting in the Dark and the Din

The pigeons swoop up,
gliding into the gray,
disappearing as if
swallowed whole
in the sunless underside
of right to left.
As I race beneath them,
their roosts rumble
like summer thunder
without end, with no
burst of lightning
save for the flash.

With that glance
I see birds burst forth
from beneath the dark
underside of that bridge
traversing The Avenue.
Beneath that expanse
of rock and metal rest
soft spots of straw and down,
where fluttering heartbeats
ignore the din of the semis
roaring through their nursery,
hauling sunlight on their backs
like starlings at noon.

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