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“On city harp strings ‘neath cotton ball clouds, Pigeon to pigeon their stories they sing, Wafting flocks gather in soft, cooing crowds; Amid rush traffic, a prelude to spring, One with their nature, harmony within, Above street clatter, perched, resting their bones, Primed for the vernal bounty to begin, Soothing the clamor with light, dulcet tones; Whiffs of smog-filled drafts like bellows pulse through, Unfazed are they by our mad world of haste, The calm bevy awaits winter’s adieu, Unconsumed by thoughts of no time to waste, Nature presides with unshakable pride, The seasons shall turn with a feather’s glide.” — Marie Helen Abramyan
On city harp strings ‘neath cotton ball clouds,
Pigeon to pigeon their stories they sing,
Wafting flocks gather in soft, cooing crowds;
Amid rush traffic, a prelude to spring,
One with their nature, harmony within,
Above street clatter, perched, resting their bones,
Primed for the vernal bounty to begin,
Soothing the clamor with light, dulcet tones;
Whiffs of smog-filled drafts like bellows pulse through,
Unfazed are they by our mad world of haste,
The calm bevy awaits winter’s adieu,
Unconsumed by thoughts of no time to waste,
Nature presides with unshakable pride,
The seasons shall turn with a feather’s glide.