By Margaret Brooker

What is that slight, soft, white-and-gray missile
That flies above my head, in work Zoom meetings
Just when I’m about to say something important?

He has boundless energy
Eyes half-red, half-black,
A gray face and little black beak
That hangs down over a white breast
With three and a half small black spots.

He runs back and forth,
Looking out through the sliding-glass door
Cooing at the doves on the balcony
Spinning around, dancing for them.
They watch, impassive.

“It’s just a pigeon.”
People say.
It’s just a pigeon
That preens my fingers with infinite care.
It’s just a pigeon
That leans into my hand for his belly rubs.
It’s just a pigeon
That freezes in fear when hawks hunt
The balcony doves.
Just a pigeon
That slowly blinks his dusky grey eyelids
When he is resting near me,
In time with mine
When I talk to him.