I notice I didn't 'blog' this but posted it elsewhere.
I think its worthy of blogation, so:
Early morning, eastern end of President street, you look up, the buildings have a fuzzy edge, they seethe, they coo, careful, you’re in pigeon country.
Suddenly, on cue the walls erupt as thousands of bodies hurl themselves down into President Street. Maybe someone opened a window, rattled a seed bag, murdered their spouse...The mass flicks south on Mooi Street, rising as it turns east into Market, big, small, young, old, black, grey and brown struggling to keep up. Midway down the block, a break in the decayed wall of what used to be architecture, up over through the gap, transverse the block and down again into President. Depending on the weather, the feathered tide goes the other way around. I think of the canyon race in one of those newer Star Wars movies, sometimes on the tarmac is found a flattened pile of blood and feathers, one wing rising defiantly.
Occasionally, whilst on my way to work, my ride will bisect this surge, wingtips flicking past my helmet, I have to resist the urge to raise my arms and leap off my saddle to join the fray. I can do anything after that....
