Watching pigeons

The pigeons don’t mean anything,

as far as I can tell.

But I watch as they fly off together.

They flock in unison,

each pair of wings,

catching the late afternoon sun

on the beat,

white on white,

the wings flash in time.

And then,

on some astronomical cue,

they wheel as though

spoked together around some axle,

white turns gray

in a blink of an eye.

The flock turns.

I, myself,

turn at the end of the bridge,

the lowering sun now in my eye.

The pigeons have flown off in unison

and have come back to rest,

lined up a wingspan apart

on the cable over the river,

heads into the sharp west wind,

each tail a rudder flap,

up and down,

adjusting one pigeon's trim

up and down the line. 

The flock,

now perched,

has gone random,

heads steady,

tail down and up, up and down,

at random.

So I begin to wonder

what the pigeons mean.