You know pigeons. Dirty grey gluttons with gammy feet and missing toes, lumbering toward cigarette butts and Wotsits with equal relish. Dead-eyed park bench botherers. Statue-liming vectors of pestilence. Sentient mouths. Oil-sheened black-and-white photos of smog diseased cities. VTOL vermin. Shimmering clouds of indifference, raining shit onto fading shopping centres. In short, horrible little bastards.
You know pigeons. Nature’s fearless industrial explorers. Ring road navigators. Soft-voiced beacons of hope. Make-do-and-mend mothers of unloved, council-condemned broods. Walking Rothkos. Infinite variations on a theme. Postmodern rewilders. Green shoots. Life finding a way. Head-tilting questioners of human civilisation. Broken wonders, stars and angels. Lost gods. In short, miracles.
Feral Pigeon (Rock Dove) Columba livia