Golden Bird

He followed the cat to the barn. It was an old barn, but had been well constructed. He knew he could save this barn, but he almost regretted the planned renovations. It seemed a shame to have to stop nature's process of reclaiming what was hers.

Suddenly tiny screeches pierced the silence, and David squinted up towards the peak of the roof. He could see a bird's nest up under the eaves of the hay loft. The mother sparrow arrived to feed her hungry brood, and the screeching stopped. Absently, David wondered if the nest could be relocated without disturbing the small family too much.

The heavy barn doors were slightly ajar, so David poked his head inside to get a look. A cobweb brushed against his face and a shiver went up his spine. He jumped back, wiping the sticky web from his face, and then pushed at the door. Rusty hinges squealed their objection to being moved, but were finally coaxed into giving way, and the doors swung open, allowing the bright afternoon sun to flood into dark corners.

As he moved slowly inside, floorboards creaked under his brand new white Reeboks. He studied the interior while brushing bits of old red paint, the color of dried blood, from his strong, but soft hands. Some of the beams showed signs of rot where rain had leaked in through deteriorating shingles on the roof, but his first assessment had been correct: it would not be difficult to restore this barn to almost original condition.

His attention was drawn to some old farm tools left, forgotten, in a corner. Spiders had linked them all together with their webs, weaving an eerie shroud over a bizarre carcass. Suddenly, the cat darted from a hole in the battered horse stall and pounced on a small brown field mouse, made vulnerable by the unaccustomed light. With the squirming mouse firmly clutched in her teeth, the cat marched out, ignoring the man, who looked rather foolish standing in the middle of an old barn wearing a brand new white tennis outfit.

He had just finished a fast game with Joe Pearson, the young man who had sold him the property. Tennis wasn't really his game, but Joe had reminded him a little of his own son. Sam had had the same sort of eagerness and ambition that David saw in the young Realtor, but his son had joined the Marines, confident of eventually achieving a brilliant military career and his dreams had been smashed by a sniper's bullet from a darkened window in a back street in Beirut. God damn those Arabs! Why couldn't they learn to live in peace? He shook his head as if to clear out such morbid thoughts and stepped outside, away from the stale smell of decay.