Part 4: Charlie

Keeping his wings folded, Charlie

dropped off the edge of the pot to alight

on the patio's concrete surface. Showing

but the faintest flicker of interest, he pecked

twice at underfoot seeds.

With not a glance thrown here or there

to scan for possible slyly approaching red

fox, or feral cat or sky hawk, or even burly

raccoon, Charlie now could be in terrible danger.

The flock, due to its absence, would be unable

to warn him of such imminent peril should it

become necessary.

I pulled ajar the glassed-in heavy back door

that overlooked the deck. Charlie did a shocked

double take, then beelined for the evergreen,

disappearing at times on his way there as he furrowed

under the overhanging leaves of weedy plants.

"Hey, Charlie," I said in my gentlest voice

while holding the door wide open.

His head poked from under a dark green

pine-needled bottom limb. "Oh," he said

in a deflated tone. "It's you."

"Yup," I said. "It is me, and you may come out

now. You know I won't hurt you."

"I know," he said, and hopped dispiritedly

to the edge of the patio. Eyeing me, his head

tilted backward and cocked to one side,

he waited.

"I worry about you, Charlie."

"I know," he said dejectedly.

"If fox or tomcat or hawk catches you out here

by yourself, you're a goner. You won't know

what hit you."

"I know," he said.

"I wish you would look out better for yourself."

"I know," he said.

So ended my last conversation with Charlie.

A week passed with not a glimpse of him.

I had reason to fear the worst.

And did.

(to be continued in Part 5)