The Last Storyteller.
In my home I have three windows, each named according to the time of day when they
illuminate my life: Sunrise, Sunset and Twilight. Sunset spreads transparency over most of the
wall, filling the room with an endless palette of colors, until the sun dips below the edge of my
world, gone for another day. When the light of Sunset fades to dusk, I close the shades and turn
away, unable to face it for another moment. When I turn to the smaller Twilight, I see a more
subtle opening above; stars and the moon fill my world. I peer into Twilight until sleep
overtakes me. On the morrow, my eyes turn to my favorite, Sunrise.
Sunrise opens into my walled garden, where I keep company with the many birds seeking
sanctuary. They split their days between luxuriating in the fountain and indulging in the buffet of
seeds suspended in feeders or formed into cakes of suet. The timbre of their tunes echo gratitude
from willowy trees and bounce against the high stonewalls that surround us as the affection of
the Sunrise rests upon our faces. I cannot imagine a day without the company of birds,
especially the blue sparrow whose presence I have come to relish in my garden. Each day, I find
her poised on a nearby branch, eyeing the lofty top of a tree near the feeder favored by the
sparrows or spying a resting place where she may to join in with the other birds. Deliberately,
she makes her way towards them hopping to one branch, alighting briefly on another. Once the
other sparrows note her approach, she is driven back by forceful beaks, buffeting wings and
sharp talons. She ends up sitting alone.
The day I first saw her, perched atop the garden wall, she recused herself from the host of drab
gray sparrows. Her rare beauty threatened them and they punished her for it.
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