Pigeon Pie

I am pulling over to remember this now,
because today,
the wind and the sun are the same
as that day
I found your car out front,
and you in a long skirt and fleece
standing on the walk,
in your hands
a sour orange pie
wrapped in a dish towel.
  
I am pulling over to remember this now,
because today,
the wind and sun were the same
when I saw a woman stop in traffic,
her SUV in the center lane,
her dress the shimmery copper peach
of your skirt
billowing in my driveway
as she tried with one hand to keep it
from flying up in the wind.
  
With the other hand
she rummaged frantically
through her back seat,
finally pulled out a cream cardigan
and dropped it
at her feet
onto a stunned pigeon in the road,
ruffled and still,
its feathers pulsing
with the passing of the cars.
  
She swaddled it
and, before putting the bird in her backseat,
before waving to me
and the line of cars that had formed behind me,
before driving off
to who knows where with the stunned animal,
she held it up to all of us with both hands,
shrugging, smiling weakly,
  
as if this was the only natural thing she could think to do,
to show us,
to offer it as an explanation,
when really, none was necessary,
as with any gift that comes to us
from a place of heat,
wrapped in cloth,
held up with both hands
still sighing and warm.
Victual
Nick Vagnoni
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Victual

Nick Vagnoni

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Victual

Nick Vagnoni


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