We still notice them, sometimes, but soon forget their presence. These days they swish more impetuously, in front of speeding vehicles, barely making it, overconfident.

They stare down at us, perched on a myriad cables overhanging our city’s space. Curious groups overseeing our bustle, the haste of our misunderstood time.  

Poised on roofs or in the hollows of a rickety overpass, their plumped up chests point to the sky dignified. Then, a steep dive.

In brief trips from one vector to another, deep murmurs infuse the air, whenever our ear manages to filter, the mass of sounds looming, echoes clashing against brash new buildings.

They fly over our park, landing on the faded bridge that crosses over a turbulent river of cars. Their flights are oblivious to change from the increased traffic, our frantic drivers trying to beat the hour, lost in neurotic worry.

Pigeons plunging into space that used to be innocent, now taken by construction sites, modern apartment buildings, sets of even more cabling, crisscrossing between.

Reaching long, a gray palette of feathers extends before take off, and in a swift sweep, before I know it, they’ve landed with conviction on the next grimy roof.

I heard their guttural remarks just the other day, talking amongst themselves, but their meaning got muffled by the wood polisher machine, the tile cutter going full blast, well into the afternoon. ¿What is the secret to their excitement?

Pigeons everywhere, so much so, barely anyone ever notices. Coexisting on our roofs, inside carcasses of old buildings soon to be demolished.

The common invaders cradle my afternoon, in layers of foggy gray, creamy white, and homey coos.