This is small, almost sonnet-sized, but it's really more of a small elegy than a sonnet.
I'm trying something here... my language is intentionally informal, and tries to be colloquial. I was encouraged to give this a go from one of my critics, so I gave it a shot, always open to something new. I'd appreciate any feedback---
A pigeon died, a month ago, outside
The window where I sit to eat my lunch.
"He's out there," says a friend of mine, "He died
So long ago that now the other birds
Are cuddling up to him for warmth. Sometimes
There's two, or even three of them, and they
Have all the bearing of a funeral mass
Gathering round and picking what is left,
But nobody could care to bury him.
He's stuck," he says, "until he rots away."
Like children at a carnival, we perch
Our fingers on the window sill and gaze
Down at the canopy when, like a cloud,
Flock upon flock his eulogies are read
From every filthy corner of the ciy:
It's snowing like a night in Amsterdam.