A white pigeon came perching on my roof.
I watched him daily unfollowing and still;
and neither ate nor filled his craw to trill
the little boulders, but sat fluffed, aloof
from man and bird, a fixture like a chimney,
or weather cock or lightning rod erect
for decades until some fateful intersect,
perhaps some flock unheard since autumn, dimly
recollected from all other sound,
remaining on the wasting air like blossom
notes. Meanwhile he’s up there playing possum
on the sharp ridge and in one moment bound.
When both our dreams and memories are spun,
what holds the stillness for a living one?
Edward Wright Haile
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-mysterious-visitor/
