Misplaced

I notice you,
sweet rock dove,
soaring with effortless grace above our towers of grey. 

You are grey, too - 
the soft colour of sea foam,
reminiscent of the view where you truly belong: 

Cliffs.  High above crashing waves.
You would have moved among them effortlessly. 

Now you're here, with the rest of us,
navigating a chaos of obstacles and noise;
traffic and high-rises; soot and confusion. 

A poor replacement for your wave-swept precipices. 

No wonder you wander, as I do,
perplexed by the strangeness of where you find yourself. 

Neither you nor I were made for this sort of crowded chaos. 

Somewhere, deep in both our beings, lies the memory and longing for those cliffs,
and the soothing whisper of the grey waves beneath them. 

They call you Pigeon. 
I call you Kindred.