Never more than a few wing’s beats
away; the poor pigeons warble that
they’ve lost the parking lot where they grew fat
to the loud and faster Corvidae who bleat
an almost-human language; the raven defeats
the mere flocked and fearful flights of cat-
harassed and bread-fed winged rats
of the city by being them but more: he eats
what they eat; lives where they live; but he
collects in his nests a bright collection, this
strange habit of display, half warning
and half fetish. De-natured doves, we,
really, are the pigeons; how we miss
the lost evening cliffs. But the raven is morning.
Jacob Bacharach 
morning in america. nice!
while any remaining doves mourn.
hey there, honeybee.
sorry, a tad ‘off topic’ …and only asking because you like the descrambling of letters … can you descramble (pretty please?):
Its a very nice poem. Sounds great. Pleasure to read aloud. Cool.