From the bridge, a flock of pigeons.
Like a pailful of water thrown, they descend onto the road below.
Together, and one after the other.
Like a mass of water, and like a smattering of droplets.
They scatter and spread across the ground.
A group of birds against, and with, gravity.
They gush through the opened gates of a dam
which
unknown to all of us
was steadily building a catchment of pigeons in this desolate heat.