and shake the sandy snow from their wings—
they're lost, leaping with quick pulses
to the cover of an awning.
the win tussles their feathers
no one bears the click-click-click
from their claws as they hit the ground—
the roar of car tires out blares them.
they huddle together,
clenching each other (if only
they had fingers) to block the wind
swirling from all angles.
they look up to me, i see
their eyes pop against the white-washed air
and i loom like a giant
in my black peacoat.
the streetlamps hum a sombre tune—
their eyes speak sermons
in the afternoon: