The Drones of Central Park

By Molly Wadkins

There is a word one might be inclined to call Hubert, and it would not be sane. He shuffled the same loop in Central Park, yellowed eyes fixed with malice on the treetops. Only transplants and fanny-pack-donned tourists were bold enough to plug their noses and endure his acetone-coated breath to hear his ravings.

“Those pigeons,” he’d say in a voice like churned asphalt. “Drones. Whole lot of ‘em.”

The tourists would depart with delighted indignation, catching laughter in the palms of their hands at the thrill of the encounter. Hubert, oblivious, returned his glare to the trees, where drones flocked.