This afternoon, Carol and I took our usual walk along Route 6 across the harbor to Fairhaven. We talked about this and that, part of the ongoing conversation that people who have known each other for a long time have. The wind swept down from the north, picking up cold and dampness from the harbor; it cut right through my windbreaker; it was exhilirating but draining; Carol walked on the lee side of me, letting me act as a windbreak for her. “Boy, that wind is cold,” I said. And just then a pigeon came flying down towards where they all roost under the bridge, flaring its primary feathers as it rode the wind currents. I thought it was enjoying its ride on the stiff north breeze, and for that moment I thought that maybe the pigeons didn’t mind the cold and liked the stiff north wind.

But on the walk back, Carol pointed out dozens of pigeons roosting on a sheltered rooftop, where they could be out of the wind and warmed by the sun.