Old man feeds pigeons in the park, wishes they were woodland warblers. Used to spot tanagers and wood-thrush, he says. Needed an eye like a hawk. But no need to even train the binoculars here, The pigeons find him. The city's a bustling forest sure but its foliage is steel and the young hunt deals. Old man hasn't made one of those in years. A handful of bread crumbs wouldn't have warranted a peep from a bunting But pigeons gather around his wrinkled fingers like they're the mother bird. Even a few mallards wander up. Once they would have been wood ducks and pin-tails. And stayed the hell away.
—John Grey
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