At home, one or two peck the herbal paths. In the next street there’s a pigeon house. They waddle along neighbouring roof-tiles, descend when no-one’s looking. Though cluttering flutter in city squares, in Venice a menace, here they coo in summer heat and by April meander minding their own business, their presence a presence, their notes sweet. At work there’s a French door near my desk. Hours spent cataloguing, replying to emails, applying for grants, editing minutes, only then single or double move past glass casements, searching for grain. Eyes perfect circles, tails swaying like vanes, their presence is noted.