I saw the pigeon rise and dive,
a maintenance man was sweeping
the fledglings from the roof; in silence
(as I was watching from a distance)—death
was a perfectionist; he swept them off,
her little ones, the broken nest,
mixed with debris, all spinning down
behind a row of houses.

She rose and dived again, attacked
the bobbing baseball cap—
Go for the eyes!
but she was simply baffled
by the relentless sweeping;
and then it stopped.

He straightens up,
some other duty calls
the man, and so the bird,
who settles on a barren patch,
flutters a wing and pirouettes,
perhaps perplexed, though soon I see
how she will start again.