Small Bird

When one has no choice but to stop, the slightest movement or dash of colour makes an impression.  It’s easier to see…take notice…engage…when you have no choice but to stop.  Resting on my side…on heat…gazing out at a white world that is at least now bathed in sunlight, I saw a small bird on a branch outside my front window.  The cat sat on the small area rug, perfectly still but for a flicking tail…moving back and forth, back and forth.  The bird’s chest was puffed to the cold and moved to the degree that I thought I could see its small heart beating.  And yes, I know this isn’t so, but it looked that way.
Its head darted side to side and the small beak seemed to draw lines in the cold air, first this way and then, that.  When it took its leave from the branch, there was a perturbation of the air, the branch left bouncing as though some heavy weight had pounced upon it and then jumped off.  It seems as though when one stops and really looks, small things seem large and large things seem very very small, almost disappearing.  What is essential is invisible really…

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