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  • Pigeons naturally nest on rocky ledges. That's why they choose cities, and will happily roost next to your air conditioner. Websites say they are disturbed and repulsed by noise, but shouts and banging won't evict them from a dirty, ancient nest, as fertile as the forest floor, holding a large pink chick.

    People wonder why they never see baby pigeons on the street. It's because those quilled lumps stay on your windowsill until they are huge. Almost as plump as their mothers, speckled and squawking for food, they scratch at the granite and metal, digging their nails into wood.

    Up to six times a year the hen will mate, and lay one egg or two. You could have an odd dozen if you left them alone. A coop on the roof could hold the whole team, you'd train them to follow the wave of your hand. The neighbors would match, with parallel circles; your flock would fly closer, absorb their lost souls. Skies would be filled with your murmur. Messages might reach the sun. A new shell is laid before the last one has flown, an infinite pyramid would grow.

    To end it, throw a cup of water. You'll clear the birds from your window with a targeted splash. They're a delicacy abroad, and in overabundance here; see if your local restaurant will start serving squab.
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