Grey. Grey. Grey. We are shady, limmering
And fluttering. We don’t stride the air like
Eagles do. We belong to the city:
Small, narrow, crowded, oil stains shimmering
Competing with each feather. We don’t strike
When we fly up in startled bunches, we
Flap, scat, skitter. Grey. Grey. Like the beggars
We have become since there were places to
Beg in, or to beg from. Grey. Grey. Grey. Necks
Ringed with lilac. Wings white tipped. We demur
From taking food from people’s hands. We coo,
We strut. Grey. Grey. Throw the crumbs down. Expect
Us to be delighted. We’ll flit, peck, play
Our part. Rapturously coy. Grey. Grey. Grey.
Juleigh Howard-Hobson’s poetry has appeared in The Comstock Review, Noir Nation, L’Éphémère, Able Muse, The Lyric, Weaving The Terrain (Dos Gatos), Poem Revised (Marion Street), Birds Fall Silent in the Mechanical Sea (Great Weather for Media), Lift Every Voice (Kissing Dynamite), and other venues. A Million Writers Award “Notable Story” writer, nominations include “Best of the Net”, The Pushcart Prize and The Rhysling Award. She lives off grid in the Pacific Northwest next to a huge woods filled with shadows and ghosts.