Pigeons at Fat Samís
Adam Vines

They wait for him
on power lines
in three rows
(three, six, five).
On the ridge
of Red Mountain
behind them,
Vulcan points
a spear tip
to the heaven
he was tossed from,
radio towers flanking him
blink bright enough to see
even in this 10:00 sun.

They flush
like a fistful
of pamphlets
when a plane’s
shadow wets
the asphalt
below them.
Then they return
to wait for him
on power lines
in three rows
(three, six, five).

His mini-van
cuts into
the parking lot
and scuttles back
into the space
in front
of the liquor store
he runs, and they flush
like a fistful
of pamphlets
and land
on his luggage racks
in two rows
(seven and seven).

He rattles some keys,
ducks inside,
and back out
with two handfuls of seed
and sows them
in front of me.
And they flush
like a fistful
of pamphlets
then land, their throats
shimmering teal
and pink while they bob,
their legs bright
arteries branching
to their capillary feet.

After they pick
the parking lot clean,
they wait for him
on power lines
in three rows
(three, six, five)
until another plane
wings by
and they flush
like a fistful of pamphlets.


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