Flock

Peering out with glum faces
Into the grey-wet gloom
The commuters huddle
Under their shelter
Much like a flock
Of variously feathered pigeons
In the stark branches
Of a winter tree.

The train pulls in
And activity is a flurry
Pointy elbows stab into ribs
Like sharp beaks
Umbrellas explode like wingbeats
Their daggered ends grazing cheeks
As heads duck
To avoid the flapping

The train halts
And the flock
Have aligned themselves
As if strung out
On a telegraph wire
Before another
Claw, beak and wing scramble
For the doors