The water ripples,
In a blink of dancing lights,
No, not stars
Not a lake
Nor some soft country pond high with reeds
But a puddle,
Filling the worn concrete,
Eroded by last night’s rain
Finally after months of winter storms
It creases against the traffic
Folding surface patterns with endless vibration
The rush hour brings.
A pigeon,
A city patchwork of feathers,
Neither grey nor white
A murky hybrid of light and shadow
Drinks from the swell of its reflection
Beak to beak
Like impressionist art
Then lazily withdrawals to an overhang of forgotten cables
As a kitchen porter curses the bins
And tosses a cigarette butt into the water
Copyright ©RMC March 2021
Photo by Anthony Tyrrell on Unsplash
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