They'd flicker neon like fireflies, turning rooftops into glittering constellations, humming lullabies that bend traffic lights into silver halos. The city would sigh in wonder, cars spinning like spinning tops, while the fairy queen twirls her gown, leaving trails of moonlit pollen that make people pause and laugh, feeling the pulse of a dream stitched into the night.

Oh, the pigeons will strut like runway models, each feather a tiny spotlight, and the lights will pulse like heartbeats—soon the whole street will feel like a grand ballroom in the sky. The city, kissed by their laughter, will dance until dawn.