King of the Square

There's a pigeon in the square downtown who thinks the whole place is his own. He struts across the warm gray stones and rules them like a king his throne.

He tells the sparrows where to sit. He tells the tourists where to stand. He guards each crumb of yesterday as if the square were all his land.

But when the evening empties out, and every bench is cold and bare, he's just one small and puffed-up bird alone beneath the great gray air.

Then morning comes, the people too, a child throws crumbs across the ground, and up he jumps, both proud and pleased, the little king the square has found.