Damp. 5 o'clock

Damp. 5 o’clock. The pigeon is already collared, but flies from me. It flies from me and the small gun of my camera but flies too slow. I freeze it midair, and it will hang there forever in the sky in the archive of my phone. A catalogue selling nothing. . Everything around me looks like my body. The spruce needles clotted in the cracks of the sidewalk like mortar. The cloudy puddle punctured by rain. The rain drawing shimmering and gritty veins down the arm of 8th street. I embrace the blessing of surrender the same way a gut embraces a bullet.