Flight of the Sparrow

I am amazed with the sparrow, flying like the wind. Flip and flip, it’s blue as the sky. Dancing and dancing while the sunlight plays with its feathers. Black and white. Brown and yellow. Blue and gray.

Teasing the newly-cut grass with its wings.
Kissing the flowers with its beak.

Up and down. Round and round.

I am on the stands watching the field as if it were a stage. Whoever the playwright is, he doesn’t realize there is beauty in this breakdown scene.

On the perch it sat and nobody noticed. The field is as blank as its face. Emotionless as its eyes. Silent as its unheard song.

Then, dire and wild, it flew. Free as the wind. Careless as distant whispers. High as every mountain.

To hell with stares. The sparrow is free…

It dances under the sun with the whistling leaves as music. Alas, the melody is spread… and heard by the others.

It is never to dance alone again.

But it tires… and then stands quietly on the dying grass.

Yes, it is never to dance alone.It is never to dance again.

One by one the others tire, one by one they stand on their places. The field as blank as their faces. Emotionless as their eyes. Nobody hears their song. There they stood still, distant to each other.

The wind blows.

And where the sparrows once flew, there danced a meek butterfly. White as snow with dirt. Almost insignificant on stage.

But to a just observer, it is the life of the show.

It enters the scene with every color that pleases the eyes. Black and white. Brown and yellow. Blue and gray.

Whoever the playwright is, he is never gonna find out the beauty behind the curtains - the butterfly that makes you doubt what you believe in, and believe in your every doubt.