Keeping Just Ordinary Company

Middle-Aged Pigeon Man

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Middle-Aged Pigeon Man. I noticed you as the automatic doors opened with a gust and I stepped out of the bus terminal in downtown. There you were, sitting on a park bench with dozens of pigeons swarmed at your feet. Most people would be terrified or uncomfortable if they were in that situation. But not you, Middle-Aged Pigeon Man. You were content. A loaf of white bread next to you, a piece in your hand. You rip the bread slice in half, and again, and again; making bite sized pieces for the birds that peck ground in front of you. Some of the flying rats decide it might be a good idea to sit on your leg, your shoulder. And you let them, Middle-Aged Pigeon Man. You let the birds sit on your leg, your shoulder. A smile comes across your face and you toss down the pieces of bread. Another slice retrieved from the bag. You do not rip this bread. Instead you offer it to the bird on your leg. It pecks a few times getting a mouthful and the same gesture is given to the bird on your shoulder. It, too, takes a mouthful. Now it is your turn. You take a mouthful, Middle-Aged Pigeon Man. You take a bite of the pigeon spit soaked slice. And you return it to the bird on your leg who takes another bite, and the one on your shoulder. You continue this until the slice is gone.

The other birds on the ground have noticed what is going on above them. They all want a turn, sharing a bread slice with the man. The Middle-Aged Pigeon Man. A few more hop up to the bench. Now there are birds on both legs, a shoulder, the back of the bench and one perched atop his head. He merely chuckles and pulls two more slices of bread from the loaf. A slice in each hand, he makes the rounds, each bird taking a bite before he moves on to the  next. A slice in each hand, Middle-Aged Pigeon Man is efficient.

A siren blares from one block over. The birds, startled, take flight. Every single bird up in the air in two seconds flat and they zoom down 17th Street. Middle-Aged Pigeon Man watches the birds leave. He stands, stretches, not a shit stain on the man. A look of pure joy  and a grin, as he puts the twist tie around the loaf and Middle-Aged Pigeon Man saunters up Market Street.




Author: keepingjustordinarycompany

Twenty something working guys just inhabiting the world with our thoughts.

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