On my return from the store, I stopped to exchange a few words with Ana Krnjus. She was standing next to her house on top of Gradiziol. Her woolen socks draped over the threshold of her front door, she was waiting for tourists. “Have you seen them,” she asked and pointed her chin toward the roof of the house next to hers. I had no idea what she was talking about. “The pigeons,” she explained. Indeed, there were two pigeons necking under the eaves of Corrine and Martin Harwood’s house. The birds were perched on an electric cable running under the rafters. Next to them was the bend in the gutter coming down from the roof and running all the way to the street. “Look,” Ana pointed her chin toward the front door of the Harwood house, “there are nails all over the place.” I was stumped again, but she took me over there to see what she was talking about. “The male brings old nails to build the nest,” she explained, “but they all end up down here.” Indeed, there were hundreds of rusty nails by the door of the house. “They are ready to nest,” Ana went on, “but…” The bend in the gutter is too smooth for the nails. “I have never heard of a bird building a nail nest,” I muttered. Ana raised her eyebrows and shoulders in agreement. “Thanks for this,” I said at last and waved her goodbye, “thanks for this.” Ana was most pleased.