Chapter eight. On weekdays, few people walked through the city streets. But there were plenty of cars. And all the different colors and sizes: from a primitive little white car to a huge truck, which was painted in different colors, which spoke about the creativity of the owner. But even such diversity on the roadway can not prevent traffic jams that drip on the nerves of late people. Some were impatiently drumming on the wheel, some were squeezing it, and some were almost screaming at the whole city in gusts of rage. A beautiful white pigeon was on its way among these cars. All the people who looked at him immediately forgot everything, admiring everything. So much grace in this fragile creature! The dove floated in the sky, flying from one side to the other, looking somewhere, as if looking for someone. But, having stopped winding circles, he took off high into the sky, spreading his wings. The rays of the sun played on his white feathers. After a few moments, the pigeon folded it