There is a man in our town who sows pigeons. He is an old man with a scraggly grey beard, tottering on his wobbly bicycle, which is loaded down with heavy buckets of birdseed swaying on the handlebars.
He goes around the special spots that have been designated pigeon fields. There he throws out handfuls of seed in a sweeping motion, and lo and behold: flocks of birds spring up at his feet, fluttering and nervously picking at the ground.
He is not a friendly man, who performs these feats of magic happily. He curses at the passers-by who make comments. He raves against the powers that be, wherever they may be, up there in the sky.
It does not shake him in his task, this mighty task, this bird-sowing task. It never ends. There will always be pigeons. And they will forever need to be sown.
He is the magician in our town, sowing pigeons.
And we are the mortals, reaping their shit.