No one exactly knew what caused the birds to follow him. But they all noticed, and it invariably happened. Birds of all sort-seagulls, crows, galas, those tiny round little brown ones, even domestic birds and pets seemed to want to follow as he passed by. But no one knew why. And not just a few, mind you, packs of them-ten, twenty, fourty-more than he cared to count. And in any weather, too. The most incessant, tippy tappy rain, the hottest, muggiest days of February, or the casual, mind numbing bleakness and passive cold that he had come use to. But no one knew why.
He sometimes theorized why this happened. Maybe it was something biological-after all, he read once that mozzies love some particular kinds of blood. Could be the same thing with birds. Maybe the shape of his frizzled brownish hair reminded them of a nest. Maybe his blood had some antibody that avian creatures just can't get enough of. Perhaps it was some confirmation bias, and birds in this city just follow anybody. Maybe he was part bird, maybe his great-great-great thrice removed cousin was some form of Falconer, or some passerine demigod. Or maybe, maybe, he thought, it was just his thing. Some had special gifts, an eye for detail, an ear for music and subtle note changes, a mind made for academia, or muscles that are just faster and more enduring than the rest. Yeah, that's probably it, he concluded one afternoon, as fifteen or so little light brown warblers flittered overhead.
