Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Joanne Merriam Homing Instincts The city's only secondarily for people; first it's for pigeons, their coorooktoo spiralling into rafters, their improbable orange eyes, the way they hide when death comes. Their leavings on our monuments show what they think of our generals, our war dead, our public benefactors, our abstract art. Feathers of rainbow grit and bone, skittish, them-toed, they haunt the homely streets and, after sudden noises, the lumpy air and, whether or not we notice, us. Next Poem
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