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"To say that pigeons were intellectual and contemplative would be a lie. There is such uniformity of mind that all pigeons in a group actually blink in unison. But if you ever asked about it, they would deny that pigeons ever blink. No one had ever seen a pigeon blinking. Well, duh! Their eyes were closed at the time. There was no convincing any of them. Seeing is believing, and they never saw it happen."
Chapter One
Here I sit on my roost overlooking the street below. It’s my favorite roost at 18th and Smallman Street. My human intellect is wrapped in the body of a pigeon. How exactly it got here I do not know. I can remember many of the things that I did when I was human including the reading of the great and lesser philosophers and Hindu clerics who teach about the transmigration of the soul or speculate on its possibilities. Well I do what to say that all speculation is over.
From my view of the world several stories above the street I drink in the daily activities of the people and other creatures that inhabit that little reality. As dawn breaks, the city Streets Department water truck washes a day’s debris into the gutter leaving the shiny wet streak behind like the viscous trail of a snail or common garden slug. Frederico, I call him Frederico, that scrawny mongrel dog trots down the middle of Smallman Street casually sidestepping the occasional car or truck that heralds the beginning of a new day in the produce market down by the river. Later in the day Frederico will be sniffing up the butts of every other dog that makes its way through his territory, as he does every day without fail. Sometimes the encounters end in a snarling fit or, just as likely, they trot off together to explore the next block and all its smells and opportunities.
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