I hate pigeons
Pigeons on the grass, alas, pigeons on the yellow grass. [1]
Pigeons miles away, many, many miles away. No pigeons for miles and yet through my head they fly as I lie awake, dreaming of pigeons in my not-yet-sleep.
Pigeons out the back door, flying in and out of a closet that is no longer useful, because a pigeons huffs disgruntled when you open the door. It protects its eggs, propagating another generation of pigeons, lying in wait to ambush the unsuspecting.
Pigeons on the balcony, unstartled and startling, making you scream when they flutter away. Lying in wait under the window to bustle their wings when you approach. Laying eggs in deserted spaces and leaving their crap for only the brave to clean up.
Pigeons on other people's balcony, raising their filthy young to be filthy like themselves. Making awful baby pigeon noises and leaving crap all over to grow filthy bacteria.
Pigeons in Central Park, though not in the days of the Falcon. But the falcon ate a wealthy woman's chihuahua, and now the pigeons return, unhunted by the Falcon. The poor must feed their hot dogs to the pigeons, while the rich place owls on the balcony to scare them away.
Pigeons being fed by foolish people who feel sorry for scavengers, who never go hungry, for they feast on garbage, even garbage full of maggots.
Pigeons making obscene noises, cooing like copulating neighbours. An unwanted sound, more unwanted than a baby-robin-hunting-magpie. Magpie in the sky!
Pigeons inside buildings, an abomination! Invading the solace on mid-size-bird-a-phobes. Pigeons, pigeons everywhere!
Sometimes there are things we put off for months and months, for no reason at all, no good reason. And then it feels so good to get it done, to let off pent-up steam.
[1] ref. Gertrude Stein's libretto for Four Saints in Three Acts.
Pigeons miles away, many, many miles away. No pigeons for miles and yet through my head they fly as I lie awake, dreaming of pigeons in my not-yet-sleep.
Pigeons out the back door, flying in and out of a closet that is no longer useful, because a pigeons huffs disgruntled when you open the door. It protects its eggs, propagating another generation of pigeons, lying in wait to ambush the unsuspecting.
Pigeons on the balcony, unstartled and startling, making you scream when they flutter away. Lying in wait under the window to bustle their wings when you approach. Laying eggs in deserted spaces and leaving their crap for only the brave to clean up.
Pigeons on other people's balcony, raising their filthy young to be filthy like themselves. Making awful baby pigeon noises and leaving crap all over to grow filthy bacteria.
Pigeons in Central Park, though not in the days of the Falcon. But the falcon ate a wealthy woman's chihuahua, and now the pigeons return, unhunted by the Falcon. The poor must feed their hot dogs to the pigeons, while the rich place owls on the balcony to scare them away.
Pigeons being fed by foolish people who feel sorry for scavengers, who never go hungry, for they feast on garbage, even garbage full of maggots.
Pigeons making obscene noises, cooing like copulating neighbours. An unwanted sound, more unwanted than a baby-robin-hunting-magpie. Magpie in the sky!
Pigeons inside buildings, an abomination! Invading the solace on mid-size-bird-a-phobes. Pigeons, pigeons everywhere!
Sometimes there are things we put off for months and months, for no reason at all, no good reason. And then it feels so good to get it done, to let off pent-up steam.
[1] ref. Gertrude Stein's libretto for Four Saints in Three Acts.