A sparrow pricks through the unkempt grass, seeking worms. Or seeds. I don’t know what sparrows eat. At my ear, Hazel’s continuing to talk. What does the bird make of cell phones, I wonder? Or people. Or anything.

“Will you be coming for the funeral?” Hazel is saying.

“Of course.”

There’s a cat in the hedge, a ginger one. Lurking. Crouched low and fixed on the bird. The chill breeze stipples my face. The bird is gone now.

.

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here