The closer you get, the more nervously they move, until they are running on their pink feet, heads bobbing frantically, but they don't take off. Eventually, once you have been perfectly capable of kicking or catching them for so long that they can no longer stand it, they will suddenly move much more messily and, finally, flappily and make it to the safety of the top of some wall or something. And then stop.
I'm sure that someone could make some deep poetic statement about this, or use these feathery things as devices for some poignant philosophical declarion about cities or something, but they just dissappoint me. Especially since pigeons are doves.
-Maria
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