Somewhere to play.

MARTHA

The pigeon,

free to fly where it wants,
it forgets the freedom -
settling for a nest.

food is the thing,
home is the place to bring -
feed the young.

Down the road is the fiend,
gun at the ready -
feathers will fly.

This time of year, it is the battle of the bulge.
The pigeons fly in to the corn and sunflower fields,
from afar, to feed to their delight.
The farmers call in the guns from all over.
The battle is on.

This has been going on for many years.
Somehow the pigeons still manage the numbers every year

The aftermath is a good bounty for all.

The jackal and other carnivore will feed on the carcasses.
The people who love pigeon pie will celebrate.


The hungry young will wait in vain for parents who will not return.
The wounded who cannot fly, yet can still walk, will walk home.

Such is the battle of the bulge.

I have heard the guns all day long.
I have seen the pigeons who walk home on their way to town.
They pass by my home, as they home-in on their home.

Such is the life of a homing pigeon

I have a pair who decided to move into my place last year.
They have bred with success and they do not get shot at.
They get fed, the cat eyes them, and the cat thinks.
We are all at peace with each other, so it seems.

On September 1, 1914, Martha, the last known Passenger Pigeon, died in the Cincinnati Zoo, Cincinnati, Ohio. (Wiki)