in the eaves of a white house with black shutters
a pigeon nestled away from the cold breeze
clucks and ruffles and dreams the things that pigeons dream

the eternal swatch of gray above, of gray below
of gray and gray and grayer flows past unnoticed

in the eaves of a white house with black shutters
a squirrel burrows in to the warmer attic searching
gnawing, playing amongst the things a man has left behind

the long shadows grow longer in the long night’s longing
the long long long night flows past unnoticed

in the eaves of a white house with black shutters
nothing matters quite so much as now