The writer in me struggles to find the story, the origin of the Blue Sparrow. How had she come
to me? What drew her to this walled-in paradise? Perhaps, her host left her and she rests here,
stranded. I wonder at her lack of confidence -- she should rule the garden as a monarch
resplendent in her elegant plumage. But she lingers, unsure of her true place among the
sparrows, as if she tests the waters of her new liberation, having escaped the confines of an iron
cage.
This morning as I gaze through Sunrise, she ruffles her feathers and stretches out her wings to
bask beneath stray rays through the leafy canopy. She unfolds like the petals of a morning glory
outstretches under golden rays; her wings are reminiscent of the clear sky curtained by royal blue
wingtips.
The blue sparrow inspires an obsession within me. Somewhere between the pale blue of her face
to the vibrant cobalt stripes of her wings and tail, I forget my need to write her story. I long to
catch her, to possess her beauty. Stronger than my desire to cage her is my fear of seizing her. As
each day draws to a close, the fear of her permanent departure returns. In doubt I flee from her,
from her story yet to be written, I retreat from her bright presence. Every day, lost in my own
fear, I depart Sunrise and its promise of stories yet to be written.
My day comes to an end and the sun reposes on the horizon. I want to frolic with the stripes of
oranges and purple swinging through the air. My Singing blue sparrow fades out her songs.
Sunset, the most flamboyant of the three, beckons to me. I lose myself in the majestic colors
which pour through Sunset. Each color, magnified by the rays of the setting sun, sprawls onto
the canvas of my walls trailing brilliant reds, giving way to wisps of pinks, and undulating
purples. The majesty of life, of all conflict and of the entire world, pours through the flimsy lens
of a window pane and draws me away from tales unwritten. I lose myself in memories and ideas
as I stare through this bombastic fenestella.
Sunset casts me out on a playground where I watch young boys, full of boundless energy and
strength, shriek and scream in the midst of their wild games. They continue blissfully unaware of
the gaze from one who fondly remembers his carefree membership of their number. I remember
long summer days I spent as a boy, running without pause; where I had no time for exhaustion or
concern for injury.
The boys on the playground frolic and laugh while bowling and batting with their homespun
swords. Their stories are written by their action, their parts play out on this vast stage of life.
Among them I find company in the freedom of their hearts. Their play extends into eternity,
propelled by youthful stamina. There they are caught up in this frozen moment, where time has
no charge. The game of life, plays out with a cricket bat or a wooden sword, envelopes and
caresses them and they embellish their roles with zeal.
In a single moment, a brilliant flash breaks the spell as the last golden beam of the setting sun
dwindles and turns the world into a gentle mixture of burnished gold and opulent pinks. Sunset
kisses the boys’ faces as the last piece of the scintillating yellow disc slips below the horizon.
Soft hues wash over the playground, the shadows lengthen and the air chills.
The departing light leaves the boys shadowed in the caress of the evening, adorned with the
intensifying glow of celestial bodies caught deep within its arms. In the corner of my window I
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