I move to the city and notice the birds clustered
at fast-food restaurants, strip malls, cart corrals in parking lots.

Gray-brown and black, they catch my attention with their startling sound,
like cranking long-abandoned equipment—clatter, chatter, squawk.

I ask a guy grilling hot dogs in front of a grocery store,
You from around here?
Born and bred, he replies.
I point to the ruckus. What kind of bird is that?
A pigeon, he says.

I’ve seen plenty of pigeons in my life, I say. That’s no pigeon.
He shrugs, turns to an old fella next to him, and gestures.
Hey, Bud, aren’t those pigeons?
The old fella squints. Yep.

Gray with iridescent necks, pigeons delivered messages for ancient
Greeks, for Allies during WWII, and speak not rusty racket, but coos.

I check bird guides, Google Lens, show a photo to a ranger
at a nearby park. No question, she says, it’s a Great-tailed Grackle.

Large groups of grackles are known to damage crops and carry disease,
something almost biblical. Their collective noun: a plague.