by Siena Oristaglio
I’m sitting on a park bench surrounded by pigeons.
They teeter and flap about.
It’s raining but they don’t seem to mind.
They peck at the ground, scouring for crumbs.
Their heads scan the surroundings mechanically.
I shift on my bench.
A few turn towards me with an ominous agility.
One sinks its head into its thick neck plumage and gives me a suspicious look.
I stare back at it.