I walk to the goose pen with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m carrying a pitcher of water to freshen their dish, but part of me is sure I’m going to find another body. Another victim. Another chip in my dreams for this place. It’s a slow walk because I’m afraid of what I may find, though it only prolongs the uncertainty.

At least until I’m close enough for the geese to hear me and their chorus of peeping assures me that all is well.

Since losing over half our flock, I’ve become a little more vigilant in watching over them. Hunter is no longer allowed in the house during the heat of the day. Copper is tied out near the goose pen where he can hunt voles and hopefully discourage the weasel. A squawk, a sudden flurry of flapping, a bark from any of the dogs . . all will send me running outside, certain my flock is under attack.

And believe me, now that my cockerels have turned into hormonal teenagers, there is a lot of squawking and flurries of flapping going on. The hens will have none of it and the cockerels won’t give it up.

You can imagine my response (and my pulse!) at two in the morning when I’m awakened by a chick’s scream. It’s a sound I’ve heard often enough. I have four chicks that free range with the rest of the flock and every so often they get a little too close to the hens at feeding time. Fortunately, these are warning pecks, aimed at teaching the chicks their proper place in the flock hierarchy.

But it is still a scream. And to someone who has heard it at almost every feeding, it is unmistakable.

And chickens don’t squabble at two in the morning. They’re silent. Even with the dog in the attached kennel barking like mad, they are silent and seemingly oblivious to all disruptions and intrusions.

So anyway, this is the point in the story where I’m running to the hen house barefoot and in my pajamas. I forgot the flashlight but at the last second hesitated just long enough to grab a hoe. After all, weasels and raccoons both have been known to stand their ground over a fresh kill, even against a human.

I don’t really stop to think whether it is smart to challenge them. The bites, the stitches, the rabies shots. It might be better to just replace the flock, but I think those are the costs you don’t count until after the crisis is over.

I fling open the hen house and . . . nothing. No disturbance. No chickens flapping wildly. No feathers settling from a struggle. No shuffling, even. Just the slight little coo my chickens always give when I open the hen house at night and the peeping of the geese in friendly greeting. By the porch light, I can see there’s no disturbance, but I decide to fetch a flashlight to do an actual head count.

Everyone’s accounted for.

But I’ll hear the scream three more times before the night is over. And each scream will send me running, though each time I’ll be a little less panicked.

In the morning, I discover the culprit.

The northern mockingbird. Renowned for his mimicry. Renowned for his late night singing. He can learn the songs of over 200 species in his lifetime, and ours has to go and choose the scream of a chick to perfect in the wee hours of the morning.