Three things in the air at once:
plane, pigeon, fly.
I drove the fly here. It clung
to my windshield,
little fly wings almost ripped
from its body
by the speed, the wind against it.
This red light
was his cue to hop off, his stop.
The pigeon sat
with four other pigeons within
resting on alternating parallel
lines. Sheet music.
The one pigeon flaps frantically,
as far as I can tell,
uncued, rises over the intersection.
A moment later
the others join in, leave the wires
bare and silent.
The plane is small to me, no bigger
than a bird
and its flight is linear, unhurried.
We all must
move while others watch, us Earthly