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The house they had roosted in for a decade

came down in a day.  The woman who

owned it was a perfect Halloween crone

when she died.  I only saw her stooped

over with a cane and broad brimmed

straw hat.   Chunky’s mother would

talk to her sitting on the bank by her front

door and several good-Samaritan cousins

would help out, cutting down the tall

grass where snakes might be and

making sure she was alright. Law,

Chunky’s uncle, would scare the pigeons

away when he stopped by with rocks and

a long stick . . . but the pigeons by then

had moved in for good and always

came back.

The story I get is that Luanne had

a husband who stole her money and

left her like a Thai Miss Havisham.

The old woman’s family tried to sell

the house when she died but to no avail.

So, in the end, the house came down.

The day after there were about thirty

pigeons clumped together on a telephone

line facing where their house had been.

In the afternoon I watched a few on the

ground pecking for bugs on our dirt drive.

When they rose up they flew to exactly

where the eaves of the house had been,

did double take in midair, and flew on.

FG  9/29/2014