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.