Eight Matrons Dine Al Fresco

How they come flocking to the outdoor restaurant,

Clad in multicolored finery,

But always tasteful: shades of blue, gray, white, even a light caramel brown.

No vulgar emerald green, shocking pink, or sunshine yellow,

And, like debutantes, each boasts a different pattern in her dress.

No problem of duplication here.

Yet, as if to compensate for their sartorial restraint, each wears an iridescent choker in subdued shades of blue and green.
Like plump Victorian matrons, they strut self-consciously,
as if to confirm their place in the world.

Their eyes are beady, alert for gossip, perhaps, as they nod their heads complacently.

But my fancy has gotten the best of me.

They are simply pigeons who have discovered spilled seed below my bird feeder.

Yet I delight to view them, each the same species; each unique.

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