Dear Pigeon,

I have fed you in the gardens, now turned concrete grey.

I've watched you dance around spiked structures made to make you unwelcome.

I have heard you take off en masse, flapping, as angry boots kick out.

I've seen you cold and wet and scared.

But I don't know what brings you joy or what brought you to this place.

Does that mean that I don't care?
I hope not. I just don't know.

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