The ebb and flow of a breeze in the now leafless treetops. The creak and crack of splintering dry tree trunks. The crash of brittle branches falling in stronger winds. The death rattle of a once vibrant ecosystem. That was all I could hear beyond the boundaries of my homestead.

My crops withered along with the forest. Drought or blight? Both? The answer really didn’t matter.

I entertained replanting but couldn’t waste my dwindling supply of clean water, corn kernels, or navy beans on empty hope.

The rain never returned—rendering the collector I’d built useless beyond the brief occupation of my mind and hands. The dew collector was little better—producing about a half a cup of water daily. The typically oppressive Florida humidity was also a thing of the past.

Each day, I gagged down the meagerest mash—a light handful of dried corn and beans soaked overnight in a quarter cup of water–until the last bin was emptied.

As my body and my world shrank, I still found comfort in the cardinal’s crunching on the few tiny grass seeds left in my pocket, the crackling fire, and my little friend’s singing.

In bed at night, the sounds were less pleasant—my raspy, labored breath and the inconsistent beat of the pulse in my ears.

***

[Stay tuned for the final installment of “Cardinal Sin”]