Wed. Dec 8th, 2021
Rebecca Kelley
Features Editor | | + posts

Rebecca Kelley is a fourth-year English major with a minor in creative writing.

I was walking back from the dining hall or health center

or a class (I don’t remember) toward a tunnel-like passage

on campus that echoes even a whisper,


and toward the blueish purple flowers and twisting vines

wrapped around wooden structures just tall enough

for the overhanging greenery to caress the top of my hair

as I strolled beneath them, branches holding onto a strand

or two of my curls as I laughed and reached up to release them,



from Mother Nature to just be 

in that moment,


when a rather large grey pigeon fell headfirst 

off the hall roof, 


in front of me on the sidewalk, its neck snapping 

immediately under the weight

of its rotund body,


its eyes, blank and dark, staring at my

body frozen mid-step, my gaze locked on its neck, 

now perpendicular to its tail feathers

and pointing to the sky


as if to say,

“that’s where I should have been,”


my ears reliving the 

crunch, crunch, crunch

wondering what brought it down 

to earth – brought me here to this moment, 

fastened onto the pigeon’s sudden deliverance, 


yards away from my own salvation.



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