The Lone Sentinal

Another Chapter in the Unabridged Suicide Note of Ricky Myron

CHAPTER 32:

THE LONE SENTINEL

The lone sentinel was the oldest of the chickens. He was an ancient, droopy old codger of a bird with a waxy, fallen comb and a coat of long, dirty feathers. Like many old men, certain, parts of the lone sentinel had grown bulbous and undisciplined with age. Even his feet, usually so trim and reptilian on birds, had become gnarled and swollen so that they resembled more some curiosity kept swimming in brine in a jar on an apothacarian’s shelf than chicken’s feet.
We never saw the poor bird eat. We never saw him drink. We never saw him move for that matter. We only saw him sit, on the same branch of the same tree, all day long, day, after day, after day. It was if he was waiting for his beloved to come home, although everybody knew she never would.
As evidence of his remarkable dedication, the branch directly below The Lone Sentinel featured a remarkable growth. It looked like the head of the worlds smallest but most expertly stacked chocolate chip ice-cream cone. In reality it was, of course a cumulation of weeks and weeks of nature, gravity and patience mixed with a little corn.
As far as I know there is no happy ending for the Lone Sentinel. He weathered storms, snow, ice, darkness, hunger and loneliness, but none of nature’s forces could keep him from his post. I could lie and tell you that he is there still, and perhaps he is in some form. But the truth is, nobody has seen him for years. The branch he used to sit on is gone now. The tree that used hold the branch is dying. All that remains is his memory.
That and a large grayish stain on the ground.