Two events and all the humble things

The quiet sun arose in the midst of a foggy landscape behind trees sheltering the house, the house that belonged to a blue songbird. Every day he flew to the treetops, and with the fragrant winter’s breath he sang so gently a song that would get stitched up into the fog and swept away by the clement gestures of the wind. Spring would come and the trees would bring about blooms, as though they had been drinking the blue bird’s songs. For when they would unfold themselves they would sing fragrant songs. Is it true that nature is a metaphor of hope? He wondered. Perhaps it is, for the way it stands up every day on its own, rising in chorus with everything in it, exchanging a discreet understanding and sense of freedom and beauty. The blue songbird would rise up early every day to keep his day focused on observing the laws of nature. He would receive them as though they were the vital letters that any observing bird could open up and find the opportunity to become an active participant in the government of nature. He learnt that power was the government’s attribute, and so everything in nature was entitled to it. But ambition was not the quality of a powerful government, to remember the law was to remember humility. To forget the beauty of freedom in its simplicity was vanity, and that that was the first storm on hopes that leads to the shattering of a free land and its free birds. And with its ruinous arrogance makes birds dispirited and the gentle flowers discolored and pungent. When all it needs is a little bird’s want for grace and graciousness for the simple rising and setting of a sun and all those humble things in the world that go between these two events.