The pigeons on my roof have achieved a novel model of avian gentrification.
Within the mornings, they maintain board conferences, cooing over who will get the prime spots on the shingles atop my century-old dwelling. I think about their chief because the one with a lacking toe, a hardened veteran of rooftop politics, doling out every day orders with an air of feathered authority and cooing confidence.
Their cacophony is rhythmic, virtually melodic, like a cityscape soundtrack, and I have to admit it’s extra entertaining than the visitors beneath. Nonetheless, their roofing expertise want work. Droppings are apparently the common resolution to every part: marking territory, redesigning the roof, or simply displaying affection. It’s slightly too avant-garde for my style.
Then there’s their tackle structure: nests assembled from twigs, plastic, and no matter else they’ll scavenge. It’s like they’re attempting to construct a tiny metropolis up there, full with erratic zoning legal guidelines and doubtful building practices. Definitely, they’ve had no permits accredited.
Briefly, the pigeons on my roof are a mix of unwelcome squatter and quirky neighbor. Whereas they’re not the best tenants, they’ve definitely obtained character. I have to admit, I’ve grown accustomed to their squalor and serenade. What would my quiet morning cups of espresso be with out their effervescent coos? Bittersweet, I suppose.