In a bare tree outside a bright window, a small black sparrow lived. Dark and drab, with under-developed wings, the only features of note he carried were a pair of round eyes that shone black and true. True black is so rare and remarkable, it is only found in one place: deep in the heart of still-warm volcanic glass. Our sparrow might have known this if he ever spoke to other creatures, but alas, as his voice was frail and cracked, he never even sang to himself, let alone strange beings. It was for this reason, that the sparrow had no name. He simply existed as Sparrow.
Sparrow’s lonely and quiet existence was an unhappy one on an unsteady branch. He spent his evenings watching the various happenings in his window, as humans sat at a table and clinked glasses and never looked out. On special nights, a small boy would play a guitar in the chair closest to the window and our poor sparrow would hop a few spaces closer on the precarious branch. It was the single event worth the risk of being noticed. After the boy finished playing and walked beyond the reach of the window’s glass, Sparrow bowed his head and grieved. Then, he would cock his head to the right, wait one suspended moment hoping…hoping… and then, upon accepting the finality of his absence, would turn slowly around and make one great arduous leap back to the crook of the branch and trunk. Tucking his beak into his dusty feathers, Sparrow would think on the last notes of the night and mimic sleep.
It was in one such despondent night that the moon, who had many names but chose to exist as Moon, took pity on Sparrow. Moon herself was a solitary creature, shunning even the attention of the irresistibly handsome Sun, and recognized his pain. So Moon spoke for the first time in a thousand years directly into his ear.
“Hello, Dear Sparrow.” Startled, the tiny bird jerked and looked up, surprise evident in his burnished-coal eyes. “Hello,” he whispered back.
It was then, Moon fell swiftly in love. For the first time she saw herself clearly reflected; shining in his perfect eyes. Ever a narcissistic star, she could have stared silently at herself for an eternity, until the galaxy crumbled around her in disarray. In fact, up until this point, Moon had made due with peeking at her smudged likeness in the murky seas. Now, as she saw her pristine beauty and intricate features, she realized why Sun had been chasing her for millennia.
“Sparrow. Come be by my side.”
Who was he to refuse? Immediately, he left his worn nook in the bough and started flying straight up and out. At first, he enthusiastically flapped his feeble wings, swooshing cold air through his feathers. However, once he got high enough, the air thinned and his tiny body tired and slowly, his wings faltered. So the moon caught him and placed him on a tiny cloud where he slept, wrapped in a duvet of dew-drops.
Later, he woke and, reinvigorated, flew directly into the moon’s outstretched arms. The cloud had washed his feathers, making him glossy and bright. Now, he reflected vain Moon from any perspective and from then on, whenever one looked closely at the moon, it appeared as if a tiny star was twinkling right above her, practically entangled in her gossamer hair. And it was as such, entwined and inseparable, that the two spent the rest of their lives, reflecting their love back and forth.
Sparrow’s lonely and quiet existence was an unhappy one on an unsteady branch. He spent his evenings watching the various happenings in his window, as humans sat at a table and clinked glasses and never looked out. On special nights, a small boy would play a guitar in the chair closest to the window and our poor sparrow would hop a few spaces closer on the precarious branch. It was the single event worth the risk of being noticed. After the boy finished playing and walked beyond the reach of the window’s glass, Sparrow bowed his head and grieved. Then, he would cock his head to the right, wait one suspended moment hoping…hoping… and then, upon accepting the finality of his absence, would turn slowly around and make one great arduous leap back to the crook of the branch and trunk. Tucking his beak into his dusty feathers, Sparrow would think on the last notes of the night and mimic sleep.
It was in one such despondent night that the moon, who had many names but chose to exist as Moon, took pity on Sparrow. Moon herself was a solitary creature, shunning even the attention of the irresistibly handsome Sun, and recognized his pain. So Moon spoke for the first time in a thousand years directly into his ear.
“Hello, Dear Sparrow.” Startled, the tiny bird jerked and looked up, surprise evident in his burnished-coal eyes. “Hello,” he whispered back.
It was then, Moon fell swiftly in love. For the first time she saw herself clearly reflected; shining in his perfect eyes. Ever a narcissistic star, she could have stared silently at herself for an eternity, until the galaxy crumbled around her in disarray. In fact, up until this point, Moon had made due with peeking at her smudged likeness in the murky seas. Now, as she saw her pristine beauty and intricate features, she realized why Sun had been chasing her for millennia.
“Sparrow. Come be by my side.”
Who was he to refuse? Immediately, he left his worn nook in the bough and started flying straight up and out. At first, he enthusiastically flapped his feeble wings, swooshing cold air through his feathers. However, once he got high enough, the air thinned and his tiny body tired and slowly, his wings faltered. So the moon caught him and placed him on a tiny cloud where he slept, wrapped in a duvet of dew-drops.
Later, he woke and, reinvigorated, flew directly into the moon’s outstretched arms. The cloud had washed his feathers, making him glossy and bright. Now, he reflected vain Moon from any perspective and from then on, whenever one looked closely at the moon, it appeared as if a tiny star was twinkling right above her, practically entangled in her gossamer hair. And it was as such, entwined and inseparable, that the two spent the rest of their lives, reflecting their love back and forth.
