NERVE 1 Furious pigeon bodies slam. hop together as if conjoined. Fellow pigeons make room, peck, ignoring Rosie and Dark Vader. Wings raised, the two press tight in a three-legged race, tear around the maple, across the lawn, past the barbecue and I remember Lynnie Emery and I didn’t cry, didn’t quit either, rolling, pulling hair. 2 Claws grasp the basket fastened to long chains, back toes shoot down a pole and your long, white underside, stretched, exposed, reminds me of dying martyrs I studied in school. All this for suet? But you’re no Braveheart cuffed to a rack. No joints pop, sockets rip or limbs tear. Your muscles flex. You flip, jump. My binoculars return to the sill.
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