When the weather wanes, the wren ascends
with a sure-winged waltz on the wind.
Warmer skies beckon southward
beyond the sea
to where she has to be.

The mother moorhen nests in March,
knows to muster bulrush
and build on broad leaves
at the marsh’s edge
ready for her fledglings.

But we are pigeons
with plumes itching to moult,
dreaming of dove downs beneath
our purple-grey shimmer
of invisibility. We reminisce of instincts lost
in this cage of skyscrapers
where nature’s call can’t reach us.
Thousands of us, reflected
a thousand times in glass,
looking to the sky
with no room to fly.

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