I don’t know if I can last much longer. My knuckles hurt from banging on the window. My throat is soar from yelling. But no matter what I do, they keep landing on the roof just outside my bedroom window. I know what they are up to out there, cooing at each other, dancing in little circles, carrying bits of paper in their beaks. They are mating. They are nesting. Damn them.
The pigeons are brazen, cocking their little heads to the side and looking at me with their beady eyes, taunting me with their ability to fly over my head while I shake my fist at them, pooping everywhere. As many times as I chase them away, they return. But I must persist. Everything is at stake. They cannot win. I shall not let them win.