Three pigeons
Perched on the highway guardrail, spaced out evenly
Not too close as to be too close
Like us six strangers on the one-ten south

Their feathers are puffed up like soft little shields against the cold
They know they'd be warmer if only they would huddle together

Yet there they sit, like us six
Alone, apart, not too close
All of us on our own private planets
And all together, on a bus that goes
To none of them.