He hates landing on iron.

The pigeon finds a perch.

Paint and wood firm enough to grip.

And balance.

He hates landing on iron.

Railings, then, are a no no.

Stone is too hard.

And somehow paint and wood, those shelves sticking out from windows and often balancing flowers, equally often are guarded by cats.

None here though.

He settles.

Below, people mill flightlessly, somehow not bumping into each other.

At the end of the street a great edifice.

E-M-B-A-N-K-M-E-N-T

It’s meaning isn’t clear.

But it seems to breath them in and out, these tall, flightless people.

Further away, another pigeon attempts to land on the perch he himself has just attempted, and it too now flaps frantically, gaining the air again as wood splinters and white flecks fall below.

And now away.

A cat can’t be far.

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