There are pigeons
on the plaza
pecking for crumbs
at the foot of the
fountain,
at the feet of
park bench fixtures,
who cast day-old bread
on the ground
and toss pennies
on the water.
Children run,
scatter the birds,
wishing they could
fly.
While gazing from
cold benches,
hooded eyes
watch coppers
glitter and flash
in the winter sun,
wishing
they still believed
in wishes,
wishing
they could still
run.

M. Zane McClellan

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