When I was a boy, I saw a little bird.
Each spring, she landed gracefully on a little oak tree in my little yard.
She was always playfully small, as I was when we met.
Red in color with a pointed head, she was eager and innocent.
She would come and go, a flying feathered flame,
With a bellowing voice that gave music to the wind.
I would meet her outside, on the tight hammock beneath looming trees.
A friendship that could not be explained.
We were committed to each other, the other's best friend.
As I grew, I would always venture back to see the little bird.
While gazing through sunbeams, her flaming body would snatch my eye.
Time went by and we grew older.
Her sparks dragged my sight less and less.
Life was different, changing to something less innocent.
Now, as master of the house in which I grew, I recalled her fire and longed to see it yet again.
This time, there was something else in the frail hammock.
I watched it gape, in awe.
It was a new little boy I saw, my son.
He saw the same spirited bird, and the bird saw him too.
A new friendship blossomed after my time passed.
Our eyes would never lock again.
I was no longer pure.
It was my son's turn, and I was genuinely pleased.


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