The covered walkways outside Union Station in Washington, DC, are home to a pretty sizable group of pigeons in the winter. On the coldest mornings, they fill every available perch underneath the high stone archways, covering the cement floor with evidence of their squatter status and making at least one former Washingtonian perpetually fearful of getting splattered on her daily walk to work. The “pigeon mafia,” my husband and I always called them. There they are, looking down at us with those beady, red eyes.

A blessedly pigeon-free walk through Union Station one day in December 

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