Donavon

Donavon has an unexpected encounter at the bird feeder.

Donavon the gnome whistled softly as he trudged across the dewy lawn, his boots squelching in the morning grass. Dawn light spilled across the sleepy backyard, where a wooden bird feeder swung from a sturdy branch, creaking with each gentle breeze.

“Good morning, you old shaker,” Donavon muttered to the feeder, patting its post. “Time to get you cleaned up.”

He climbed a small wooden ladder, retrieving a rag and a pouch of mixed seeds from his tool belt. He carefully unscrewed the bottom, brushing away the damp seed husks and tightening the little hooks that held the perches in place.

It was his weekly routine, one he had kept for decades; long before the human family moved into the little yellow house with its peeling shutters.

“Hey now, Mindy, don’t peck at me while I’m working,” Donavon scolded gently as a bright red cardinal landed on a branch above, tilting her head in curiosity.

“I can’t help it, Donavon,” Mindy chirped, “You’re slow, and I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” came the rasp of Edgar the blue jay, landing with a noisy flutter beside her. “The gnome works as fast as an old tortoise, but at least he gets it done.”

Donavon snorted, sprinkling a handful of sunflower seeds on the feeder tray. “And you’re as loud as ever, Edgar. Hush up before you scare away the chickadees.”

“I’m here, Donavon!” piped Pip the chickadee, so small she could barely be seen against the feeder. “I’m not scared.”

Donavon smiled, a warmth in his chest as the birds gathered, chirping greetings and updates on the neighborhood: where the best puddles were, which cat had been prowling near the fence, and how the crows had stolen bread from the trash bins again.

“I wish you’d all get along with the crows,” Donavon sighed, tightening the feeder’s last screw.

“They’re bullies,” Mindy complained.

“They’re thieves,” Edgar added.

“They’re funny,” Pip giggled.

Donavon chuckled. “They’re still part of the sky’s family. Remember that.”

He was about to pour the last scoop of seed when a snap of a twig made him freeze. The birds fell silent. Donavon slowly turned, blinking under the brim of his mossy cap.

Standing at the edge of the yard was a human, about thirty, with messy hair and a mug of steaming coffee in his trembling hand. His wide eyes darted from the gnome to the birds and back again.

“Uh...” the human stammered.

Edgar squawked in panic, flapping wildly into Mindy, who knocked Pip off her perch, sending the chickadee tumbling into the seed pile with a poof. Seeds scattered like rain. The feeder rocked violently, nearly tipping Donavon from the ladder.

“Jack, stay calm!” Donavon shouted, forgetting he wasn’t supposed to know the human’s name.

“How do you know my name?!” Jack yelped, dropping his coffee with a splat.

Edgar flew in circles, screeching, “Intruder! Intruder!” while Mindy tried to scold him, and Pip shrieked from the seed pile, “Don’t step on me, don’t step on me!”

The human backed up, eyes wild, looking like he might run into the house and call every news station in the country.

“Stop!” Donavon yelled, throwing up his tiny hands.

Jack froze, staring.

The gnome sighed, adjusting his cap. The birds settled, feathers ruffled, eyes darting between them.

“Jack,” Donavon said, “I need you to take a breath.”

Jack opened and closed his mouth like a fish. “You’re a...a...gnome.”

“Yes, I am,” Donavon replied, climbing down from the ladder and dusting off his vest. “My name is Donavon. I’ve lived here long before your family moved in. I care for the birds. That’s all.”

Jack blinked, his gaze flicking to Mindy and Edgar as they perched warily, then to Pip still buried in seeds, tiny wings fluttering.

“I’m dreaming,” Jack muttered.

“You’re not,” Donavon said gently. “You’re awake, and you’re seeing something few humans ever get to see.”

Jack rubbed his face, eyes red from shock. “You talk to the birds?”

“Yes, of course,” Donavon said. “Birds talk, if you listen. They’ve always needed a friend. And they need a feeder that won’t fall apart.”

Jack laughed, a hysterical, bubbling sound that ended in a cough. “And you...what, you’ve just been out here in our yard, feeding them?”

“Yes,” Donavon said simply, “and fixing your feeder every week. You never noticed because you were always asleep or working late. But today you came out early.”

Jack’s legs wobbled, and he sank onto the grass, ignoring the damp. He looked at Donavon for a long moment.

“What now?” Jack whispered.

Donavon looked at him, his bright eyes calm beneath his white brows. “Now you know. But I need you to promise me you won’t tell anyone else.”

Jack swallowed. “Why?”

“Because,” Donavon said, spreading his small arms toward the brightening sky where the birds were settling once more, “the world would never let me continue this work if they knew. They’d want to take me away, or worse, take away the birds’ home. They’d demand to know if there were more gnomes, and where we lived.”

“Would that be so bad?” Jack asked softly.

“Yes!” Donavon’s eyes flashed. “You know how the world is. They wouldn’t stop until they found every last one of us, and they wouldn’t stop until we were gone. It’s best if we continue our work in secret.”

Pip fluttered free of the seeds, landing on Donavon’s shoulder. “Please, Jack,” the chickadee said in her tiny voice, “Don’t tell.”

Jack stared, breath caught, before he nodded slowly. “I...okay. I promise.”

Donavon smiled, a warm, knowing smile. “Thank you.”

Jack sat there as the dawn brightened, watching as Donavon poured the rest of the seeds and wiped down the feeder, the birds returning to their chatter as though nothing had changed.

Jack realized, as he watched Pip nuzzle Donavon’s cheek, that maybe nothing had changed; except him.

“Would you like some coffee next time?” Jack asked softly.

Donavon glanced back, his eyes twinkling. “That would be lovely.

Word Count: 1000
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp" 
Prompt: Write a story or poem about something unusual visiting a bird feeder one day, and how the person feeding the birds reacts to this visitor in an equally unusual way.

Use Nature as one of your genres.