The birds are dreaming
of me again.
I see their beaks
stretched out on the wire,
wings biting into
the April air
I feel
their talons picking
snatching something I cannot see.
They want dinner
just like the fat men
with their newspapers,
taking up too much space
on the street below –
who rub their stomachs
and growl,
low and silver in the dusk.
And I dream
of the birds
rushing the dark
in my room,
nests feathered with dust,
their amber eyes
bright and cursing
at the moon.



Pam Riley

About Pam Riley

Pam Riley is a native New Yorker, who still misses the Big Apple. She likes to spend her free time going to the theatre, museums and traveling. She has been writing for years and enjoys working in both poetry and prose. The little quirks and imperfections of life are her inspiration.
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