Stills

The old man was motionless
his white shirt billowing like a flag,
his right palm open and outstretched,
a white pigeon pecking from his hand.
If it hadn't been for the speed-blurred wings
they could have passed for a street sculpture,
just like the gap-toothed woman
framed by the entrance to the apartment building
when she opened the door
and saw the baby her guests brought
and her eyes took on the glaze
of a perfectly sculpted happiness,
not unlike the poise of another woman
in another yard where she stood
and held a duck --
real or fake, impossible to tell:

but the way she cradled it,
carefully still,
made the distinction irrelevant.
Like a void, filled.