Conscience

Two pidgeons slurred in pinwheels,
churned their voices into bubbling chyme
against the inviting and fuzzy coat of morning's light;
they spieled on different reels,
spewed wars of illiterate songs,
rampant at the threat of the afternoon's deathly heat.
They dropped music notes onto the concrete,
which broke in halves, wholes, and quarters,
and debated the duet they thought to be innate.
And, crusted by the dawn, flapped on, and on, and on.