A Bird In the Hand

Birds of a feather flock together

Julius walked over from the fire and watched his birds. He called them "his," but he knew they were wild. They were still all he really felt he had left. They were his only friends, and he was content with that.

He shucked more food to them, leaning against the back fence, marveling at them as they startled: their beady black eyes, their powerful arched wings, and their razor-sharp beaks. He smiled as his mind wandered back to the phone call.

"Julius Manderson?"

"Ayuh. Who's'is?"

"Mr. Manderson, my name is Simon Ferry. I am an agent with the IRS—"

Julius' mouth had drawn into a sour line. "Don't need no revenuers. I don't do 'shine, and ain't no tobaccy for forty mile. I got no truck wit' you." He had hung up the mustard yellow Bakelite phone and gone into his writing room, with its shelves and shelves of handwritten manuscript. As he looked out the window, a serene look settled on his countenance making him look fifteen years younger, had there been anyone to see. Still smiling, he had pulled down a book at random and opened it to a random page, filling in the bottom section of it:

March 22, 1966. IRS man again. Won't be long till I gotta feed the birds. He's gonna come here sometime soon, reckon.

The huge, red-scalped birds pecked and walked, walked and pecked. Julius looked over his shoulder from time to time, letting the fire burn contentedly. Marvelous creatures, he thought. They'll feed fat on what I done give 'em today. And I never have to spare a crumb o' bread.

He turned back to the fire, poking it with the pitchfork, making sure the once-shiny shoes and small pocket-folder with IRS stamped on it burned down to hot white embers.

NOTES: ▼

Word Count: 300
Submitted for "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Use the words bread, fence, and wings