The poem begins with a small, quiet moment: morning light falling on leaves. From that, the speaker draws a simple thought, that life is "tender like that / and open." It's a gentle, almost hushed observation, the kind you have when you stop for a second and really look at something ordinary.
Then the poem turns, with a little humor. The openness of life isn't for "elves," the sort of storybook creatures you might expect in a pastoral scene. Instead it's offered to an old pigeon, strutting around "in all his air / of being right." The title, "Urban pastoral," fits: this is nature as it shows up in a city, not a meadow, but a bird on the pavement.
The mood is warm, wry, and observant. The speaker seems fond of the pigeon's self-assured confidence, and the poem suggests that beauty and tenderness don't need fairy-tale settings. They're there for anyone, even a scruffy bird.