Thanks Max, your snap [which I loved] brought this on.
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My father raised racing pigeons
Sleek and aerodynamic
Mostly American Trentons I suspect
Although I can't be sure
I do know they were not Capuchines, fantails
Or the oddly off-balanced Dragoon
They were certainly not orange yet I saw him once feed them
Rogue eggs, perhaps blue jay or trash starling
One came home from a 500 mile race
With a limp pinioned wing
I watched him sew the phalange back to the carpometacarpus
With a needle and a piece of orange thread
Then wrap the wings to the body
With a piece of white cotton cloth
"Will it work again?"
-"No doubt"
I was standing in the coop
Above the garage
Looking through the wooden dowels
Of the one-way latch
on the entry ramp.
"at least he didn't get the
behind-the-garage treatment
several weeks later
the pigeon was flying again
this time on a short jaunt
from Bear Mountain to Port Washington
when my father opened the trap door
white clouds began to swirl about us
and let them fly
I watched the injured bird hesitate for a moment
then soar into the brilliant sky
It looped down and around several times
then followed the brood
As they reconnaissanced
And settled into a tailwind
They arced over the treetops
And became smaller and smaller
Until they were no longer there
- Peter Ciccariello
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