The Petite Writer

Mr Brealey hobbled through the familiar paths of his town park as he did nearly every morning. The park was deserted in these early hours, but he had a long habit of feeding the park’s pigeons, and he did so as often as his body allowed him to. Unless it was raining. His bad hip wasn’t keen on any adventures in the rain, and the pigeons didn’t enjoy those gloomy days either, since wet wings are difficult to fly with. So they made a mutual agreement to skip the rainy days, or at least that is what Mr Brealey believed. But he did come very often. Not because the pigeons actually needed to be fed, but because they were his morning companions, who ate the familiar man’s food because their instinct led them to do so.