_____ Pigeons on the roof top next door. Cooing and scratching at the lifted paint, wood pulp, clutches of damp splinters between their toes, kicked off in insubstantial clouds. Pressing beneath the pebbled tar shingles and working their nails on the soft wood of the dormer; they are small and useless for such noise as they make. They are building a city, high there within the attic of the white house of the old woman who rents her rooms.
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