One Called Paul
Five drab juveniles land outside my window;
goth eyeliner, raucous and rucking over territory,
fouling up my window ledge, five floors high.
Under murmured shadows, three leave suddenly,
startle the two, who, drawing close, look to each other,
before the larger wings it with thousands in late city skies.
The smallest catches reflections in the high rise glass,
checks its rag tag feathers for signs of iridescence
emerging in the half-light of a noisy urban dusk.
But through my window, I see only reluctance in movement.
I wonder if this one’s worried; ill-prepared to join in
and just needs a little more time to practise.