They have found their spot. A pair of pigeons. In the cold that slows.
We dance.
Pigeons on the windowsill. Playfully pressed against one another. The chemical salt air in gusts that lift their feathers, they nestle tightly. The warmth of two bodies. Shielded from the whipping salt wind in a frigid toxic pull that cannot knock them down. They have each other. They are warm.
We are one.
The soft embrace – no pecking order here. The birds are love against the cold. Icy steel bars they slipped through here beyond the wind, huddled in the window’s corner on cold concrete. One climbs on top of the other, then the other. The other climbs on top. The other pushes and lifts the other from behind. They adjust and search for comfort. The two feathered friends who have each other. They know each other. They are each other.
Just like that they are gone.
One moment to the next. Rise and fall. From the feet to the head. They come. They go. They come back again.
We dance.
The pigeons reappear in the window a jumbled mass of feathers in a heap. They are two yet one, nestled in the quiet space between the bars behind the world where the cold does not reach as furiously. It’s a little softer here in stillness. Together in the warmth of good intention and in our bodies stretching to the sun – the cold at our feet, we can leave the cold behind. Thoughts that warm us. Together connected in life and love, birds of a feather that flock together seeking out the sunshine of the soul.
Our dancing bodies warm then cool then warm again. Heat that rises from the inside out – swirling in passion forward from the belly of love. There is a magic that burns inside that my heart can touch and my lips can tell. Words symbols of what my body speaks. In a look, a glance, a nod and knowingness, a shared language in a space where we take refuge together. Soul searchers in togetherness moving to the now.
Dancing again. The pigeons are still here.
They’ve shifted position on the windowsill – a little to the center now. Wings that lift and loosen and settle. This quiet moment of stillness different than the one that whispered just before it. Another moment awakens to another.
Steam will again rise from sticky asphalt streets beyond this same window. The mugginess will settle on our skin in a warm sheen again. The pigeons will again flap their wings in stagnant puddles and city fountains.
We keep dancing in sunny awareness beyond the cold.
Author: Roxanna Sherwood, WritingWaves, February 2026