Spurning all weight of gravity,
a gentle cyclone of pigeons
revolves in hushed frenzy
up towards the ghost-grey sky
then back down, over and under,
round about, in hypnotic splendor,
a flight of flights, a dizzy clockwork
orbiting with tattered wings,
with axis tilting, the gears
meshing in the soft machinery,
free to soar, but going nowhere,
making a spectacle of small circles
then retreating back to familiar roosts
underneath the dark and filthy overpass.
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