by No Sweat
Dedicated to Gary Wayne Stone
PART ONE - Still Eagles
Across the universe.
They were
Two old friends.
Pigeon friends.
Pigeon friends are different than regular friends.
Their old origins, Scotland and England.
But.
Eastern Kentucky.
They grew up there.
A day in the life.
Poor together.
Knew everything about each other.
All too much.
Had played on the same Graded School Basketball team.
"The Irvine Golden Eagles."
Actually, no eagles.
Pigeons.
Those were the two young friends' "eagles."
Pigeons.
Precious days.
Racing homers.
Blue Bar white flights, blue checks, pencils, mealies---Eagles.
Every cooing one of them.
Revolution.
One friend, Viet Nam. Fought. Wounded.
The other, University. Protested. Graduated.
Viet Nam became rich. Trucking business. Making millions.
College boy, broke. Writer. Suicidal characters.
Two old friends, now.
Still, eagles.
Forever friends.
Penny lane and pigeons.
Rich friend had called his old friend to drive a hundred miles.
Stay with him the week before the race.
Great last race of the year.
A thousand birds.
Race everyone in the combine wanted to win.
Suicidal one could not avoid the invitation.
Magical mystery tour.
His friend always treated grand.
When he arrived---country mansion----SUN.
Blinding.
Such a miraculous contrast to their youths.
Tomorrow never knows.
Incredible.
His rich friend's estate.
A mile in every direction. Fences. Lawns. Fields.
A nefarious dandelion's nightmare.
A groundhog-----Helter Skelter.
Thousands of blue spruce.Transplanted.
What a place.
Off along one ridge rose the row of modern pigeon lofts.
Gleaming.
All year, since banding his first baby, the rich old friend had been waiting.
For this race.
His loft was 444 miles and 777 yards.
It was late in the year. Shorter days. Fickle weather.
He had used all his skills with his young birds.
Now, he needed his old friend.
Pigeon instinct.
That's what it was all about.
His old friend owned it.
Unlike anyone ever had.
Mansion friend sought toned athletes.
Instinct friend.
Desired.
Harmony.
PART TWO - Good Vibrations
One old friend remained inside his mansion.
Other, plopped in chair.
Crying. Cursing.
Not yet.
Alone.
Outside.
Night had fallen.
Now.
A hard day's night.
Starless.
Raining.
Started raining morning early.
Rained all day.
Still raining.
Windy.
Coldy.
While my guitar gently weeps.
Outside old friend felt no cold.
Rain was nothing.
Let it be.
His luck had been rained on many times.
And yet.
Ireland.
His pedigree.
He set there in front of the main loft.
Lights on.
Near landing board.
Inside loft.
Rows of emptiness.
Out on lawn---behind him---GAZEBO.
Fancy.
White shadow in dark.
Earlier.
Guests had defaulted invitations--WEATHER.
A thousand dollars---LIBATIONS---wasted----rested there.
Gazebo now.
Short one quart---WILD TURKEY.
A quart wounded.
Temporarily confined between old friend's legs.
Ever so often, a little taste.
Neat.
Rain---magical chaser.
Little tastes all day.
Some bites remained.
Untamed.
Mansion old friend stepped outside---covered porch.
Looked hard.
Sees image, old friend.
Shouts.
"COME ON IN! YOU ARE GOING TO BE SICK! THE RACE WAS CALLED OFF!
THERE AIN'T NO BIRDS COMING TONIGHT!"
Wet old friend---in chair---remained.
Didn't stir.
Hardened.
Never heard nothing.
I am the walrus.
No pigeon noodle soup for him.
Another taste---down.
The loft --- hollow.
PIGEONDOM,awry.
Porch surrenders, last voice.
"HAVE IT YOUR WAY! I'M GOING BACK IN! I'VE GOT YOU SOME FOOD,
WHEN YOU DECIDE!"
Another taste.
Could Wild Turkey be Wild Pigeon?
The old friend owned that special feeling.
Strange.
Good vibrations.
Water spattered upon him.
Somehow, his bones.
KNEW.
A pigeon was coming.
Don't ask---- how.
Nothing could fly----in this.
He gazed into night.
Rain in face.
Dark clouds.
Drunk.
PART THREE - Paint It Black
Wild Turkey---gone to roost.
Dead soldier.
Old friend's wet head--cocked back.
Golden slumber.
Not.
Up there, all around, collage of clouds.
Some dark.
Some grey.
One pale.
Ominous.
Straight above-- moving clouds--- momentarily--- slight divide.
Heaven's vertical alley.
Could drunk eyes see beyond black?
A bat?
Is that a bat?
What is that?
Old friend hard blinks.
Squeezes rain from his eyes,
That is not a bat.
Small black figure.
Diving, darkly.
Nothing ever dove like this.
Changing shapes.
Nobody had ever witnessed such a dive.
A dream dive.
Pigeon.
Stealth.
Feathered spirit.
In my life.
Landing perfect.
Three feet from old friend.
Blue check.
She looks.
Smiles.
Winks.
Turns.
Walks.
Traps.
Old friend stands.
Had Wild Turkey gobbled reality?
Be still beating heart.
SHARP. LOUD. WHISTLE.
Nobody could whistle like him.
Again.
And again.
PART FOUR - Gimme Shelter
"WHAT IS IT!"
"WE'VE GOT A PIGEON!"
"WHAT!"
"WE'VE GOT A PIGEON!"
"YOU BETTER NOT BE LYING!"
"WE'VE GOT A PIGEON!"
Peering.
Blue check hen---feed---pecking busy.
"Nobody is going to believe this."
"It doesn't matter---All our lives we have waited for this moment...Cap-n,
how will we know when we see Moby Dick? Ah-h, when you see a white
mountain and there be no white mountain, there be the Moby DicK!"
Dedicated to Gary Wayne Stone
PART ONE - Still Eagles
Across the universe.
They were
Two old friends.
Pigeon friends.
Pigeon friends are different than regular friends.
Their old origins, Scotland and England.
But.
Eastern Kentucky.
They grew up there.
A day in the life.
Poor together.
Knew everything about each other.
All too much.
Had played on the same Graded School Basketball team.
"The Irvine Golden Eagles."
Actually, no eagles.
Pigeons.
Those were the two young friends' "eagles."
Pigeons.
Precious days.
Racing homers.
Blue Bar white flights, blue checks, pencils, mealies---Eagles.
Every cooing one of them.
Revolution.
One friend, Viet Nam. Fought. Wounded.
The other, University. Protested. Graduated.
Viet Nam became rich. Trucking business. Making millions.
College boy, broke. Writer. Suicidal characters.
Two old friends, now.
Still, eagles.
Forever friends.
Penny lane and pigeons.
Rich friend had called his old friend to drive a hundred miles.
Stay with him the week before the race.
Great last race of the year.
A thousand birds.
Race everyone in the combine wanted to win.
Suicidal one could not avoid the invitation.
Magical mystery tour.
His friend always treated grand.
When he arrived---country mansion----SUN.
Blinding.
Such a miraculous contrast to their youths.
Tomorrow never knows.
Incredible.
His rich friend's estate.
A mile in every direction. Fences. Lawns. Fields.
A nefarious dandelion's nightmare.
A groundhog-----Helter Skelter.
Thousands of blue spruce.Transplanted.
What a place.
Off along one ridge rose the row of modern pigeon lofts.
Gleaming.
All year, since banding his first baby, the rich old friend had been waiting.
For this race.
His loft was 444 miles and 777 yards.
It was late in the year. Shorter days. Fickle weather.
He had used all his skills with his young birds.
Now, he needed his old friend.
Pigeon instinct.
That's what it was all about.
His old friend owned it.
Unlike anyone ever had.
Mansion friend sought toned athletes.
Instinct friend.
Desired.
Harmony.
PART TWO - Good Vibrations
One old friend remained inside his mansion.
Other, plopped in chair.
Crying. Cursing.
Not yet.
Alone.
Outside.
Night had fallen.
Now.
A hard day's night.
Starless.
Raining.
Started raining morning early.
Rained all day.
Still raining.
Windy.
Coldy.
While my guitar gently weeps.
Outside old friend felt no cold.
Rain was nothing.
Let it be.
His luck had been rained on many times.
And yet.
Ireland.
His pedigree.
He set there in front of the main loft.
Lights on.
Near landing board.
Inside loft.
Rows of emptiness.
Out on lawn---behind him---GAZEBO.
Fancy.
White shadow in dark.
Earlier.
Guests had defaulted invitations--WEATHER.
A thousand dollars---LIBATIONS---wasted----rested there.
Gazebo now.
Short one quart---WILD TURKEY.
A quart wounded.
Temporarily confined between old friend's legs.
Ever so often, a little taste.
Neat.
Rain---magical chaser.
Little tastes all day.
Some bites remained.
Untamed.
Mansion old friend stepped outside---covered porch.
Looked hard.
Sees image, old friend.
Shouts.
"COME ON IN! YOU ARE GOING TO BE SICK! THE RACE WAS CALLED OFF!
THERE AIN'T NO BIRDS COMING TONIGHT!"
Wet old friend---in chair---remained.
Didn't stir.
Hardened.
Never heard nothing.
I am the walrus.
No pigeon noodle soup for him.
Another taste---down.
The loft --- hollow.
PIGEONDOM,awry.
Porch surrenders, last voice.
"HAVE IT YOUR WAY! I'M GOING BACK IN! I'VE GOT YOU SOME FOOD,
WHEN YOU DECIDE!"
Another taste.
Could Wild Turkey be Wild Pigeon?
The old friend owned that special feeling.
Strange.
Good vibrations.
Water spattered upon him.
Somehow, his bones.
KNEW.
A pigeon was coming.
Don't ask---- how.
Nothing could fly----in this.
He gazed into night.
Rain in face.
Dark clouds.
Drunk.
PART THREE - Paint It Black
Wild Turkey---gone to roost.
Dead soldier.
Old friend's wet head--cocked back.
Golden slumber.
Not.
Up there, all around, collage of clouds.
Some dark.
Some grey.
One pale.
Ominous.
Straight above-- moving clouds--- momentarily--- slight divide.
Heaven's vertical alley.
Could drunk eyes see beyond black?
A bat?
Is that a bat?
What is that?
Old friend hard blinks.
Squeezes rain from his eyes,
That is not a bat.
Small black figure.
Diving, darkly.
Nothing ever dove like this.
Changing shapes.
Nobody had ever witnessed such a dive.
A dream dive.
Pigeon.
Stealth.
Feathered spirit.
In my life.
Landing perfect.
Three feet from old friend.
Blue check.
She looks.
Smiles.
Winks.
Turns.
Walks.
Traps.
Old friend stands.
Had Wild Turkey gobbled reality?
Be still beating heart.
SHARP. LOUD. WHISTLE.
Nobody could whistle like him.
Again.
And again.
PART FOUR - Gimme Shelter
"WHAT IS IT!"
"WE'VE GOT A PIGEON!"
"WHAT!"
"WE'VE GOT A PIGEON!"
"YOU BETTER NOT BE LYING!"
"WE'VE GOT A PIGEON!"
Peering.
Blue check hen---feed---pecking busy.
"Nobody is going to believe this."
"It doesn't matter---All our lives we have waited for this moment...Cap-n,
how will we know when we see Moby Dick? Ah-h, when you see a white
mountain and there be no white mountain, there be the Moby DicK!"
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