Watching a little sparrow dart among the legs of chairs and patrons in the outside seating area of the coffeeshop. It’s September. If this was a wilderness area, the first fruits would be ripening as the grains go to seed.
But the bird is in the middle of “civilization”, gleaning crumbs left behind by the larger indifferent creatures who can’t even be arsed to be aware the sparrow exists. It is out of its native element, but it has found a means to survive in the conditions it has found itself in. It doesn’t care about human boundaries or if the unattended slice of cake on the table was deliberately left behind for being stale, deliberately left behind for local fauna to enjoy, or absentmindedly forgotten for five hot seconds. It found something to eat, and it is going to eat while it can.
I suddenly have a glimmer of understanding why the hillside spirit calls me “Little Sparrow” and it has nothing to do with size.
I didn’t realize I had held my breath at the epiphany until my lungs got tired of the crisis and forced me to get over it.