passenger pigeons

text messages don’t suit me.
if we still had passenger pigeons
i would send folded notes on
the backs of winged creatures,
feathers gleaming in golden sunlight as
they'd spiral upwards into a cerulean sky.
i would wait anxiously for a reply,
sit by the window and watch
day and night
for a flurry of feathers,
a letter gripped desperately in my bird’s
silver beak. i would tear open envelopes
marked with handwriting of all designs,
straight and slanted, curled and swirled.
i would recognize these as the rounded
lettering of a friend, and those as the
slanted cursive of a grandmother. i
would send correspondences at dawn
and wait for my pigeon’s return by night.
i would write with ink and a quill pen on
parchment yellowed with age.
i would dream of seeing my loved ones’
faces not covered by homemade masks
in an age when we would no longer limit
our visitations to passing
moments on a sidewalk in town or a
virtual meeting. we would write to one another
every day, our laughter reflected by
the slants and swirls of our handwriting.
but there are no passenger pigeons,
no letters sent by old friends.
there is only a deep sorrow
piercing our broken hearts.
we shed tears for the losses,
for the bodies infected,
for the shortage of morgue carts.
some days i look upwards at the sky,
searching between clouds,
awaiting the passenger pigeon
that will bring me good news.