Dirtycitypigeon.

Today, a DCP woke up.

Opened his eyes.

Blink. Blink.

He found himself perched on the ledge of the Cultural Center downtown, toes curled into cold stone that had seen a hundred winters before him. Below, the city stretched and cracked its knuckles. The El screamed awake on steel rails, a long metallic yawn. Drivers leaned on their horns like they had something to prove before coffee.

Morning traffic breathed in waves. Steam lifted from grates. Conversations overlapped and dissolved. The city was tuning itself.

Hunger hit—not desperation, just the familiar reminder. Time to move. Time to scan. Somewhere out there was a decent scrap: yesterday’s crust, a dropped sandwich corner, something still honest. He tilted his head, catching rhythm in the chaos, neck bobbing in time with the streets.

Out east, the bronze sun crept up from the lake’s horizon, painting the glass and concrete in tired gold. Not shiny. Earned. The kind of light that knows work is coming.

Another day in the city.

Another day surviving where you’re not invited.

The DCP shook his feathers, steady and unfazed, and stepped closer to the edge.