A Fallen Finch
The cool of the spring morning coaxed me to the front porch to greet the rising sun. From around the house, I heard the thump of my toppling wheelbarrow. Simultaneously, the male finch frantically flew to the banister on the front porch, chirping mournfully. Clearly eying me, I wasn’t sure if he was pleading for help, or blaming me for the disaster he had witnessed. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, it finally dawned upon me what the anxious creature was reporting. Rushing through the house to the back porch, I witnessed with heartbreak my cat “Black” [Whose sibling was named "Decker"] with the frantic finch’s mate clenched in a death grip between his teeth.
I finally realized that the fallen wheelbarrow had served as Black’s launching pad aside. I chased the cat away causing him to drop the dying finch. Alas, she was mortally injured. With great angst, I placed the feline-ravaged female finch on a flat rock at the base of the cedar. The male finch soon fluttered to her side, clearly grieving with mournful cries and drooping wings.
“I’m sorry, my friend, I’m so sorry!” I told him. After grievously observing his mate from every side, the widowed finch finally flitted away rejoining his migrating flock, perhaps to seek a new mate.
I learned a cruel lesson against negligence that day.
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