The Pigeons on my Roof: a Review

The pigeons on my roof have achieved a unique brand of avian gentrification.

In the mornings, they hold board meetings, cooing over who gets the prime spots on the shingles atop my century-old home. I imagine their leader as the one with a missing toe, a hardened veteran of rooftop politics, doling out daily orders with an air of feathered authority and cooing confidence.

Their cacophony is rhythmic, almost melodic, like a cityscape soundtrack, and I must admit it’s more entertaining than the traffic below. However, their roofing skills need work. Droppings are apparently the universal solution to everything: marking territory, redesigning the roof, or just showing affection. It’s a little too avant-garde for my taste.

Then there’s their take on architecture: nests assembled from twigs, plastic, and whatever else they can scavenge. It’s like they’re trying to build a tiny metropolis up there, complete with erratic zoning laws and dubious construction practices. Certainly, they’ve had no permits approved.

In short, the pigeons on my roof are a blend of unwelcome squatter and quirky neighbor. While they’re not the ideal tenants, they’ve certainly got character. I must admit, I’ve grown accustomed to their squalor and serenade. What would my quiet morning cups of coffee be without their bubbling coos? Bittersweet, I suppose.