I was young, too young
when she took me into the grey steel shed.
The door burst open into life
of beating wings
flapping white, black and brown.
The harried squawks
My eyes and ears filled with the lives of bustling pigeons.
She caught one in her hands
calming its delirious fluttering
with the determined cup of her hands.
I watched amazed as she soothed it into submission;
stroking its tiny head,
cooing softly into its face.
She stroked its neck so softly
I was watching it’s eyes half closed
when I heard the crack.
It was only later I saw the swift flick of her wrist.
The other pigeons cawed their indignation
Matching my half open mouth and wide eyes
I was young, too young
Only later at the supermarket aisles bursting with homogenous flesh
did I realise.
She taught me a good death.
