Part 3: Charlie

Speaking of water, it was a fact

also that Charlie dared not get into that

alien environment over his head.

Even drinking from the birdbath

that rested heavily atop the four-legged

wrought-iron stand would put him

somewhat at risk of drowning---

especially if the shallow tub was filled

too nearly to its rounded rim.

Charlie's happiest times came when

the flock returned to the patio. Which,

by the way, they did quite often.

But they arrived, naturally, for the seed

pickin's, not for him.

Although by virtue of his basic sparrowness

he possessed a birthright to valid

membership in the flock, he could not

truly flock.

That required, at the very least, an ability

to fly. And well enough to keep up

with the group, with its midair sweeps,

twists, and yo-yo turns and pinpoint landings,

wherever it might---as if of one mind---

elect to go.

And to have appropriate interactions with those

who were its individual interchangeable

smallest working parts.

When, unhappily enough, like Charlie,

you vary too greatly from the norm, it can

be difficult, if not impossible, to interact

acceptably with the others. The flock's

life contexts, after all, were markedly

different from his, so what was there

to share with its regulars?

Their behaviors were more assertive

than Charlie's. Their personalities hummed

with crackling energy; their wing muscles

were trim ... and wonderfully fit.

But what was even worse on their part,

illiberal assumptions about fellow flock

members failed to reach---beyond

the cliquey group's invisible but very real

borders---to the uncommon likes

of Charlie. Authentic common ground so

necessary for a sense of belonging to develop

was lacking in critical aspects.

In a word, Charlie was glum. And no wonder:

He had a lot to be glum about.

(to be continued in Part 4)