Sometime over the summer， the pigeons had come back.<br > Carl Burns sat at his desk waiting for class to begin on<br >the first day of the fall semester， and he could hear them in the<br >attic above his head， doing whatever it was that they did up<br >there. It sounded to him as if they were scurrying around on<br >the rafters， running up and down them， and he could almost<br >hear the sound their little toes， or claws， or talons， or what-<br >ever the hell it was that birds had， made on the wood as they<br >raced around madly in the musty dark.<br > Now and then there would be a sudden flurry of wings as<br >one of them took to the air， and because it was very dark up<br >there， the fluttering might be followed by the soft sound they<br >made when one of them collided with the beams that held up<br >the roof.<br > When that happened， at least if the bird hit hard enough<br >to addle its inconsiderable brain， it would plummet down to<br >the acoustical tile in the false ceiling and land with a thud that<br >dislodged a sizable amount of dirt and dust， not to mention<br >an occasional dab of what Burns was certain must be pigeon<br ><br >