I’m at the city centre crossroads.
I’ve missed the swoop. I’m here mid-action;
the feather-flurry, the dark fury
already gripping soft mother-of-pearl.
A bolt from the grey, bang on the x-spot.
It screams for meanings. A mind-stirrer.
A myth-seed. A poem-trigger.
The pigeon, dazed, somehow doesn’t quite
stumble under a bus, lives on.
The peregrine, empty-taloned, jets
up the street, shatters the flock to fragments.
This wouldn’t matter if it hadn’t happened
just so, just then, in the gap between
a death and my knowing of it.