The pigeons on my roof have achieved a novel mannequin of avian gentrification.
Inside the mornings, they keep board conferences, cooing over who will get the prime spots on the shingles atop my century-old dwelling. I take into consideration their chief as a result of the one with a missing toe, a hardened veteran of rooftop politics, doling out day-after-day orders with an air of feathered authority and cooing confidence.
Their cacophony is rhythmic, practically melodic, like a cityscape soundtrack, and I have to admit it’s additional entertaining than the guests underneath. Nonetheless, their roofing skills need work. Droppings are apparently the widespread decision to each factor: marking territory, redesigning the roof, or just displaying affection. It’s a bit of bit too avant-garde for my model.
Then there’s their sort out construction: nests assembled from twigs, plastic, and irrespective of else they are going to scavenge. It’s like they’re making an attempt to assemble a tiny metropolis up there, full with erratic zoning authorized tips and uncertain constructing practices. Really, they’ve had no permits accredited.
Briefly, the pigeons on my roof are a mixture of unwelcome squatter and quirky neighbor. Whereas they’re not the proper tenants, they’ve positively 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.