Rock Dove

Rock Dove--early morning shadows outside a New York window, 9th or 10th floor, Zette's, in the garment district, not far from Port Authority Terminal. Winter light--that particular cold sun-filled brilliance. Moving along a ledge, just outside the frosted glass, no thoughts at first--only an awareness of other living beings. Everything alive. On a street corner in Oakland, a few years later, 14th and Broadway, in the shadow of the Pelli tower, late afternoon, veiled California sun... Life of the pigeon--life of anyone. Wet feathers in wet evening rain. Sound of cars and cabs, whoosh of water on glossed pavement. Annonymous accomodation. What would it be like to be gone?