the hierarchy of pigeons

the sound of fluttering wings,

hits my nerves with a stark surprise,

the pigeons are back in my back garden,

behind the window nets I'm in disguise,

and I watch them as their usual parade,

spans the sprawl of green and paved congregation,

with a smile I watch them pick the bread and swallow,

I don't know why but it fills me with elation,

then comes the psycho pigeon,

he flies alone and takes what he desires,

the other birds try to guard their quarry,

but their attempts his tenacity belies,

there's an obvious hierarchy at work here,

the same as any place we humans go,

the biggest and most aggressive get the most,

until the smallest and meekest overthrow,