Pigeons in the Slum

It will be going on three years, won't it?  Or two, I forget. My days have been a routine of breakfast, shower, slogging through the cold Bronx streets to the library.



Only occasionally lately have I been resorting to the old habit of laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.



It is difficult, having given up what was considered safe and secure.  But  no, there was no room in my image of my life for a limited institutional functioning.  Limited contacts, limited activities, the ever hanging threat of more hospitals.



thank God I walked away.  thank God I have everything I need.  thank God for the pigeons flying to remind me, to remind my soul, that while I may peck around for my daily food, after meals is the time to fly.



I see those pigeons, when my heart is downcast, whenn it seems ghetto living, and unemployment, and the disappointments of life threaten to undo me.  I see those pigeons flying.  How beautiful even these strange birds can be when they spread their wings.  When they swoop with one another.  They don't seem to care that they are not swans or swallows or sparrows.  They don't seem to care people shake them off as dirty or slummish.  They fly.  They have wings.