Strange things live in cities, unseen in plain sight.

An old man pushes a shopping cart down the street, humming tunelessly to himself. Tall buildings watch as he passes by while the people inside don't see him. He's just another bum in a place no stranger to the homeless. His face is leathery and the rest of him is thin, and he's got ten teeth left that probably wont last much longer-- it's a miracle they've lasted this long.

He's engulfed by ragged clothes a dozen layers strong and he adds to them when he can. He doesn't speak much, but when he does, he's got a strange accent no one can place.

The cart he pushes is full of birdseed and jars of peanut butter. All he ever eats is peanut butter, but the birdseed he gives to the pigeons.

There's always a flock of pigeons around him. Always. They cling to his clothes, nuzzling and cooing to him. Others perch on the cart and ride, jerking and jostling with the cracks in the pavement. People who pay attention know when he's coming because all the pigeons in the area will suddenly fly away, only to return a few minutes later en masse when he wheels by.

Sometimes, when it's raining and people glance at him him from the corners of their eyes, they don't see a scruffy man in dozens of coats. Instead they see an unnaturally thin, faceless, vaguely-human shape stooped over the cart. Instead of coats, it looks like he's covered with layers and layers of overlapping, feathered wings.

The image only lasts for a moment, and those who see it usually forget it instantly.
Nobody bothers to look twice.


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