a sultry sunday
about 3pm in mid-august
was the best time to hunt pigeons
it was then they felt safe
to swoop from the roofs
scrounging
the corner
the street bare white & so hot
you could smell tar oozing
I was ready for them
with my shiny red shooter
my pockets full of dried peas
it was time they arrived
as I knew they would
must have been twenty
or thirty toeing & pecking
at the crumbs I had set I moved
forward softly slowly