The pigeon sits in the birdbath
like a fat, grey abbot
blessing the water with his stillness.
He does not move when I pass.
He has achieved something
I am still reaching for —
the utter certainty
that he belongs exactly where he is.
And the birds still think I am morning.
Some images are a collaboration with Midjourney; all writing is my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.
It's Still Life 
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