Manhattan Pigeons (Whiskey by Orlo Newbould)

I remember chasing birds. Brooklyn Lager and an old friend, a cousin, I followed him between the parked taxis. His half of a baseball ticket hung from a worn back pocket. I misplaced mine earlier and we couldn't go back to our seats. So we chased Manhattan pigeons with our hats.

Manhattan pigeons. Cleaner than the woman. So I was told. My pastor visited the city years ago and told horror tales of the girls. Don't bother he said. Coals in your lap. It was breezy April and our heart rates were slowed by whiskey. Coals in my lap sounded cozy. Instead my cousin and I dove after pigeons, after all we were both wearing wedding bands.

Half the money gone now, no cock-blocks from the pulpit to tame my nature, I dream of another chance to chase birds. In Manhattan. Wouldn't misplace the ticket stub either. Coffee would be wise too, a warm, wide-eyed pursuit of feathers. No desperation. No coals. A warm blanket of glitter-dotted flesh to whisper me tales of tomorrow.

Tuppence A Bag (Champgne By Shoestring Dialogue)

I remember chasing birds. I thought that I could catch them. Never mind the grown-up thoughts that creep their way into immediacy after being so conditioned by warnings from news editorials. I didn't know about disease. More importantly, I hadn't given up yet. Here in adult land you watch the birds, knowing that catching them is near impossible. Should possibility exist, it's far too much work to try and quietly sneak up on a nervous bird. So we've grown into feeding, watching, and talking about their beauty.

I remember chasing birds the way I remember playing baseball. It was fun. One day I would catch a bird, I was certain. I had caught butterflies and lightning bugs, so why not birds?

I remember the ability to conceptualize death at a young age. My sister and I came across a dead bird in the yard. It had not been injured, but it was certainly not breathing. We dug a grave and said a eulogy to pay our respects. We even named the poor creature, and carved that name on a brick with a twig crafting a head stone of sorts.

I remember chasing birds as though their capability of flight could transfer to me the moment that I could hold one of them. I could do productive things with wings and wind. My imagination took me to those heights. I suppose ignorance and innocence played their roles as well. As a city-dweller, a rarely give them a second look. They are such filthy little creatures.