the pigeons

It is twilight, and I pedal my bike toward the back of my apartment building, through the alley like I usually do. Mostly it's quiet back there, except for the occasional pigeon hooing. But as I slow my bike near the gate, an echoed voice makes me look up.

Framed by the open window on the second floor, there is a dark-haired woman. She is standing a few feet away from the window, and smiling at something. Her face is made brighter more by her smile than by the incandescence of the bulb-lit room she stands in. And the woman isn't only smiling, she's talking. And more than that, she seems excited. I cannot hear what she is saying, but I can hear her voice rise and fall. And I can see her animate her words with her arms. I cannot see who the woman is talking to, but I get the impression she has an audience of more than one.

But the nice part is, when I pull my eyes back from the dark-haired woman, I see flowers. Bunches and bunches of purple and blue flowers. It looks like the room is full of them, and they are tied and standing upright in clear vases.

I think I know what the bunches of flowers are for. I think I know why the dark-haired woman is smiling, and why her voice raises and lowers so much.

It really is a pleasant sight, seeing her framed that way by the flowers and the window.