In this solitary, rooftop coop, I take my time choosing my words,
Letting in deep breathes to steady a shaky right hand scribing the fine print.
My message crafted, I'll calm a cooing bird at its temporary roost,
Nestling its head against my softly bent knuckle rubbing its neck,
Adorning the avian leg with paper and a bow, wrapped up just like a present,
I prepare my words to take flight and reach you in timely manner.
With a hand of feed and a peck on the head I send it back to its mate.

I anticipate nothing reciprocated from this flawed system;
The homing pigeon lives true to its name, knowing only its home
And not the nests it has visited. You may read what I write
But I'll never be privileged to read your reaction.
Only hoping the bird wasn't taken by a pellet or as prey
I only assume you get the message.