Pigeons

“Hey! Stop feeding the pigeons.”
Shouts the car’s owner from below,
but I have named these birds after 
my sadness. It drizzles. So far
I remember I was seven when the monsoon 
became the harbinger of sadness.
I was its hip long. Its small finger 
was the whole world for my fist.
When his finger slithers away
I broke into a flock between the clouds.
I ignore the owner of the car.

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