【Pigeons】

Among that grey and indigo hoard, she cascaded from the heavens—immune to their envious coos and the pressure of her feathers. The sidewalks cleansed themselves for her walking, body alone a symbol of complacent terms and pleasant thoughts, despite the anatomy below.

A white rat is still a rat, even if winged and graced with branches and mythology—anatomy no different to muscle and bone, aside from nourishment in the selective, materialistic minds of the other, in regards to meagre gifts. Footsteps indistinguishable—though one walks the higher path—to the sight of any child, they walk beside each other without knowledge or care on darker nights.

There is no reason to call the pale pigeon a dove, only to alienate the common mouse of city skies. Had I the power to change those stories of temporary peace and blessing, that mere olive would find itself in the beak of the beast more purple in hue—a royal tone achieved by genetics and luck, as opposed to having been starved of melanin. A rainbow within that deceptive grey ruffle is far more elegant than the matte monochrome of doves, despite its little recognition.