The First Week
A solitary pigeon perches on a telegraph pole
And sings her call.
Other than that, the world is quiet.
The constant rush of rubber on tarmac
Has finally ceased.
Gone, the mechanical birds, bees and bugs
Filling the air with their droning busyness.
The warm wind has dropped,
Hushing the rustling.
And even the neighbourhood dogs respect the silence,
The only noise is that of sunshine
And Nature, exhaling her contentment.
The pigeon starts! and takes to the air.