The small bird blossomed into view as if once she were a tiny sky-bud born upon an invisible branch.
And there in the light of the new day are the small birds who seek their nourishment among the wands of grass. They hop amid the dew that sparkles with scattered rays, upon feet that are the strong browns of the forests.
The flutter of small wings has my heart doing the same. A bird of mostly rich browns, yet with brilliant flashes of blue, dances through branches that grow in a cozy closeness.
A small bird hops up the brickwork as easily as jumping over grass. In a short while it will take a short flight into the rafters of the old house and to the surety of protection while she sleeps.
A tiny robin sits in the holly, so unaware of all the things that means to Claudia as she watches. It is the winter without snow and under the warm summer sun in August. The small bird is the decoration, the brilliant red of the scene and the blessed earthy browns too.
The small bird switches its focus in rapid movements, a series of information for its senses to make sense of. From these sights and sounds it will choose to stay or fly. And when it does its flight is more a sort of "just in time" propulsion system rather than the grace of larger birds with their fluid movements. It is as if they wish to keep folding their wings only to realise that gravity is still there. And so they make me happy, these tiny creations of feather, beak and claw, for they are as funny as they are wonderful.
The small bird flies not in a swooping arc or glide, as does its larger brethren, yet as if it were attached to the sky by a yoyo. Carin watches it as it goes from tree to rooftop: up, down, up, down, up.
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