Before the Dust Settles

Once in a while, I can hear the open, erratic flapping of pigeon’s wings by the abandoned building behind my apartment.
It's surely the same sound as playing cards being nervously shuffled by a rookie dealer, rendered timid by the lurch and leer of unlucky gamblers.
This might be one of my favorite sounds. With it: children's laughter, wash of pouring rain, crack of thunder, crunch of toast, drip of percolating coffee, page’s turn, other sounds from another time, not yet too severed to forget.
Before it all settles, the kicked-up filth catches the light and creates a momentary glow around the edges of the weathered concrete. But mostly, it’s the pigeon’s wings churning up dust and grime from the dilapidated pits of the place I sit and watch. Sit and watch from my backyard.
And the birds scatter, they always do. The vacuous wind between each feather is all in the emptiness of that place.