betweentwopaths

The old man and the pigeons It's a warm summer's afternoon in August. The sky is clear, the sun is shining and the songbirds are singing their merry tune. It's one of those days when you can take a leisurely stroll through the park and forget, for a time at least, of all that troubles you. It is on this day my dear reader that, as you walk gently through the park, you may be the one to notice the man that everybody is ignoring. He's right over there, to your right, siting alone on a bench and throwing bred crumbs to a flock of hungry pigeons. He's an old man, well past his prime with a thin frame, wrinkled skin and white hair so thin that