A Story for Breaktime (Poem)

A bright cool morning running late for school –
my feet were squeezed into pinching shining shoes.
Breakfast turned over like butterflies as I tore
downhill, until a flurry of sun-illuminated plumage
turned my feet, to see nature’s violence in a bungalow carport.

Pigeon breast opened, a bloody feather cloud –
idyll frozen, chaos, talons – hell in soft shroud.
My flushed face opens and all stops with the breeze,
but feathers still float, sink, and stick to concrete.