Counting Finches

How many? said the finch. He had landed beside his friend on the frosty branch. Down inside the house there was the business of human ceremony—something opaque and inscrutable.

Yesterday there were seven, today there are six, he said.

Upstairs through the foggy window the girl was sitting and using a stick to change something before her. She did it for hours.

Here comes the seventh, said the finch, and from the barn, the biggest of all of them came head bent holding his own special stick, flashing, glinting, swinging.

Thanks for checking out my short story.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

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