I met Daniel for the first time in August.

He was standing by a bench on the far end of St. Stephen’s Green, near Grafton Street, and he was surrounded by what seemed like an impossible number of pigeons. The birds milled around him, a living cloud of grey and green. They would rest on his shoulders and his head, peck at his jacket and croon. They would fly between him and the trees, perching on his upturned hands now and again to eat muesli from his palms. I had never seen wild birds looking so relaxed, preening and even dozing on his outstretched forearms. It was scene straight out of Mary Poppins, and I could already hear the music playing.

Daniel wasn’t the only man feeding the flocks of St. Stephen’s Green that day, but there was something unique about him, about the way he could reach out to caress the small, feathery heads looking up at him so trustingly. He was a sort of guardian, a holy figure even, to these birds. He was the type of person you could only find in Dublin.

Crowds of passing tourists, on their way to Grafton Street, would stop to take his picture. He would gesture to them, and they would shy away with mumbled excuses. Every once in a while, though, he could catch someone. Take their hand before they knew what was happening and pour muesli into their palms. The birds would fly from his shoulders and onto the unsuspecting tourist’s hand like a mass of feathered energy. The tourist would scream or laugh, caught off guard by how quickly the birds took hold

Daniel didn’t need to catch me, though.

I went willingly, and continued to go willingly for the next four months. Every Saturday, same corner of the green, same time. Daniel would be waiting with his pigeons and his crooked smile full of missing teeth. He’d always be wearing the same brown shoes and chewed up leather jacket. The same reusable grocery bag full of muesli and bread would be resting on the nearby bench. There are some days when I wonder if he’s homeless, but I don’t think he’d ever say if he actually was. Instead, he paints another picture.

He’s German and a former war correspondent. His right arm was blown to bits in Lebanon with the Irish Peace Keepers, and the Dáil Éireann decides that because he was with the Irish when it happened, he’ll be treated as Irish, all expenses paid. He gets a prosthetic elbow, the first of its kind, to reattach his arm. But there’s complications. Blood clots. He stays in Ireland for two years and he rescues his first pigeon on St. Stephen’s Green, one that was nearly killed by a fox. He saves two more after that, and soon the birds start coming to him like he’s a member of the flock.

So he looks after them, in and out of the hospital. When he’s not on the green, Daniel says he volunteers with the Samaritans. He asks tourists for euros to help the homeless when they feed the birds, and most willingly oblige. Still, I wonder where that money goes. What that scar on his arm and chewed up jacket really mean. He says he’s going back to Germany in the spring, and I wonder if he actually will. The only thing I know for certain about Daniel’s world is his pigeons.

I’ll be okay if it stays that way.