I saw a bird the other day,
sitting on a branch,
the tiniest branch.
A branch so feeble it bent under the weight of the small bird.
But the bird puts its faith in the branch,
the tiniest branch,
and perched upon it.
I saw the limb quiver and shake and bend as if it was rubber.
Then the bird on the branch,
the tiniest branch,
began to sing.
It sang the most beautiful song that has ever met my ears,
a slow melancholy tune that drifted through the air like the last leaf of autumn.
And then the branch,
the tiniest branch,
snapped.
And the bird fell, and fell, and fell,
Until its eyes were shut and wings were drawn,
prepared for the unforgiving ground.
But a hand surrounded the bird holding its wings,
and its fears.
The hand carried the bird to a place of astounding beauty.
And the bird that put its faith in the branch,
the tiniest branch,
was now surrounded by birds who had believed in things the rest of the world did not,
like the branch,
the tiniest branch,
and a voice cried out,
“Fidelis unus”
Faithful ones.