BIRDSEED

The old man, wrapped snugly in an oversized trenchcoat, leaned forward across the stone chess table in the park. His breath came in sporadic bursts of white mist, which drifted slowly to nothingness in the chill atmosphere of this brisk winter day. He wore a knit black cap and heavy leather gloves, and his nose was two shades darker red than normal. He sported a ragged white beard peppered with shards of grey, dripping condensation beading on the hairs in glistening, half-frozen pearls.

Overhead, a coo and flutter. The pigeons had arrived, right on time.

The man produced a plastic bag from one of his coat pockets and placed it on the table in front of him. The birds, despite possessing a minimal memory, nevertheless had become familiarized with his presence each and every morning for what seemed to them a lifetime - and perhaps it was. They hovered gently and settled to the ground, and one or two of them got brave and landed on the table not far from the old man's reach. They waddled to and fro, back and forth, in ecstatic anticipation.

"Patience, my little fellows," the gentleman whispered. "I think I have enough for all of you."

The wind whipped icily from the north, and the man produced something else from his deep pocket - a scarf, which he wrapped slowly around his face, and let trail down the back of his jacket.

"Ah," he continued, "Much better. Now, where were we?"

Gingerly, as best he could using his bulky gloves, he opened the plastic bag and scooped out a handful of the precious seed. The birds pranced around excitedly, bobbing up and down like miniature oil derricks. He lifted his hand and, with one swift swipe of his hand, spread the seed over the concrete surface of the patio. Within seconds a pulsating mass of feathers and claws was upon the booty, plucking each seed up with frenzied delight.

"Good... now eat up."

For a few minutes, the elderly man watched the birds wipe up the last of the seed particles, until all traces of the pigeons' food were gone. He smiled, lifting the scarf ever so minutedly, and eased himself up off the stone bench. He brushed himself off, making sure none of the seed had lingered on his coat or slacks, then ambled off carefully, as he had for the last several months, toward his humble apartment.

As he looked back, a portion of his bushy eyebrow had fallen, getting into his eye. He pressed it back against his tan forehead, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then continued home.

If anyone had been around that moment, they might have heard him mutter something through the protective wrap of his scarf, something that sounded vaguely like, "Allahu Akbar."

If anyone had seen this man, or known of his intentions, they might indeed have tried to stop him... or perhaps not, considering his harmless daily routine of feeding the birds.

But indeed, nobody noticed the hunched old man walking away from the chess tables in the middle of the park, where pigeons hungrily stabbed at seed, and were cooing happily, oblivious to what they were being fed. And hours later, the park worker, armed with a scraper and a pail, paid no mind to his daily chore of scraping bird excrement off of the concrete. He wasn't getting paid much, but it was enough to let him hold on to his humble abode, and keep out of this godforsaken weather. He went about his duties, marveled at the redundancy of the chore, then left, satisfied with a job well-done.

Once the respiratory distress started days later, the man didn't know what hit him. Nor did the boy who insisted, despite the protests of his mother, that he chase the birds and let them land on his shoulder and peck at the brass buttons on his snowsuit. But the old man, looking very distinguished indeed on a seat close enough to observe his work, yet far enough away... just far enough away.

---

The soft tinkle of bells alerted him to the presence of customers. He whisked toward the front of the store and watched as a family of three - a man, his wife and young daughter - scanned the shelves of bird food. He grinned briefly, then inserted himself between man and wife and asked, "Good morning, folks. How might I help you?"
"Ur, um," the husband replied, "We're just getting some food for our lovebirds, that's all."
The storekeeper nodded and flashed his yellowed teeth through his dirty grey beard. "I tell you what, sir. I just got a shipment in of some brand new seed. I think your birds would absolutely love it."
"Well, if you don't mind, um, we prefer to get, you know, the cheapest brand. We're on a budget, you know."
The old man scooted backward and gleamed as if he had come up with a brilliant idea. "Indeed, indeed. I understand. Let's make a deal, okay? You can buy one bag of your birdseed at regular price, and I let you try a bag of this new stuff absolutely free? How about it?"
"Well, sure, why not?"
The storekeeper winked. "Trust me, you'll really appreciate this new seed."
The family picked up the two bags of seed, paid for their order, and left as quickly as they arrived. As they walked out the door, the old man noticed something out of the corner of his eye, and froze. The door shut, and the man exhaled. Moving over to the far corner of the store, he replaced the blanket that had slid off the birdcage that housed two green parakeets, now lifeless and stiff.