The Pigeon A pigeon sat perched apon a picket fence, it's feathers ruffled in the breeze, all was quiet, all was silent, untill a sound came from the trees, it was the sound of many men, it was the sound of many battles, this pigeon could see the future, and this pigeon could see the past, the pigeon tilted his head slightly, wondering how long his stillness would last, he heard history being carved into stone, a memory he could call his own, he gazed upon the grass, and the huge shadow it cast, he spread his wings and darted into the air, squinting his eyes from the sun's glare, and looked beyond what human eyes could see, the Celtic history, in his vision, was just blowing along the breeze. A strange creature flew beside him, it was a small Urish fairy, her hair like grass, her eyes like glass. The pigeon flew with the creature, inspected every sound, he heard something near the ground, he lunged down and landed, a glass mirror to him she handed, with one peck of the glass he would come into the past. He pecked the glass, returned to the past, and saw the sights before him, he carved his name into stone and from it he shall be known