on the block where the pigeon died

an irregular bloody smear with a few dirty feathers

all that remained of the unnoticed bird

yet people remembered something

and in the way of the street

turned this into a different reliquary

dropped bitter regrets, each burning a different pattern

cried briny tears, each etching it’s own trace

sprinkled secret joys, each sticking like shiny glitter

soon the pavement was transformed

became an altar to chaotic resilience

and for a moment the clickety-clack of the weaving paused

and the weaver smiled a wolfish grin