A little bird, in a bold cap of golden feathers, alights upon the blossomed twig.
It is as if each beat of the bird's wings forms part of a sonnet to the air.
The bird in flight gives its colours to the sky and yet leaves it as a fresh canvas, ever part of the onwards moment.
The bird has a bonny bright soul, a jocund spirit, that is so in keeping with the leaves that dance all around.
The bird comes in her earthy hued browns, that rich yet gentle shade that reminds me of the woodlands. She hops over the wands of grass as if she had springs in those delicate feet, as if the world was her trampoline and she moved to a sweet birdsong she was yet to sing.
High above them a bird flies on invisible strings, eyes trained on the grassland below. In those tall blades that flatten with each gust of wind is dinner, nesting materials or both. From so far below Tyler can't tell what species it is, though by the way it hovers his mind tips towards hawk. Against the sky, bluer than the previous days, it is a silhouette.
Amelia stands so still, eyes following the bird in flight. She watches as children do, with that look of love and awe. Her eyes stay with the bird, the beating wings capturing her mind in the most calming of ways, the same way soft waves on the beach do. It's as if she's in love with nature, with life itself, and I pray this life nurtures that sense in her, keeps her as whole as she was born.
A bird, regardless of its plumage, sings right to the soul of any blessed to hear.