The albino pigeon doesn’t even try to run away.  Doesn’t rise in a
land-mine blast of feathers and flutter when I approach, doesn’t scurry flat-footed
towards the safety of curb or tree. There is little surprise in its amber-bead eye
as it cocks a questioning glance, pausing in the grass
between sidewalk     and street—a bright spot
of pillow-stuffing white against a
backdrop of weedy green—instead,
it looks weary, perhaps
asking:
Are you
the next one to make a target
of me today? To set your sights as if
standing out from the dust and weeds renders
my life immediately forfeit, as if I am made
out of clay, and only exist     for your sporting pleasure?

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