Brick-by-brick, the gardener built his wall, remembering the days when a white picket fence had been enough.
There was a flutter of wings and he turned, brandishing his trowel like a sword. A bluejay cocked its head to one side, looking at him in what he thought was a very judgmental way, especially for a bird.
“Sorry,” he muttered, lowering the trowel. “Thought you might be something else.”
The bird’s head shifted as if to say “And now you’re talking to a bird.”
“Well, what do you know?” the gardener grumbled. “You’re just a bird.”
He smoothed down the mortar and gently lowered a brick into place. It landed with the heavy thud of a slamming door.
The gardener brushed his hands and smiled.
“I’d like to see them get through that!”
He gathered his tools and trundled off, wheelbarrow toddling behind him like a young child being led by the hand. When he’d gone, the bird let out a chorus of song.
Over and under the vines crawled, winding limbs of green slithering in. A hundred glimmering wings filled the air. In the distance, a horn sounded.
The faerie folk were coming into his garden, wall or no wall.
Word Count: 200
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to John Brand for the prompt photo!