Pigeon landed on my head, almost.

Phew, that was close.  A pigeon just swooped out of the air and tried to land on my head!  Damn birds, as if I don't already have problems getting a slice of the real estate pie, they want to come in to roost.  I should have turned my mouth up in a mock exhalation of smoke and bit off a tender claw, then spit it out on a passing cabbie, who, for reasons I simply cannot conjure, deigns to lay on his horn at 7:45 in the morning, behind a red light, behind a line of stopped cars.  You know, we're small.  We can make lots of noise, but mostly, we can't just move entire blocks of vehicles with mere sound alone.  No, no, can't do that, I would think, spitting bloody pigeon claw at his windshield with a force that would surely create a sliver, or two, in the glass, before moving on, feeling like my own horn was blown outward, a humpty-dumpty outfit of adolescent revenge, all mismatched and over-priced.