The Song of My Sparrow

I once saw a statistic that said there are more trees on earth than stars in the Milky Way. 

I hate that statistic.

True or not, it makes it seem like trees are expendable. If there are so many trees, what’s the destruction of one forest going to hurt? Can’t you picture the type of person who thinks like this?

I step onto the porch of my family’s “humble” home in the California hills. Lush vegetation fills our plot, kept vibrant by the gallons of potable water our hired garden staff dumps on it every day. Turning towards the lawn, I see Aphrodite stepping out of her car gracefully, balancing on her red-bottom stilettos like a gazelle rising to its feet.

I go inside and say hello, then make my way to the sitting room. Barely used by my parents, it has become my quiet respite. I sink my toes into the sheepskin of my favorite chair and look around. If this is my world, why do I feel so uncomfortable in it?

There’s a tap on the window. I turn to see a sparrow lit on a branch of the citrus tree outside. Upon my opening the panes, the bird dives in and begins transforming the room with each flap of its wings. Thwap, the hardwoods melt into rich, fertile soil. Thwap, I feel the plushness of moss under my feet where there was just a rug. Thwap, the books jump off the shelves and rearrange themselves into pregnant fruit trees, heavy with the weight of provision.

The sun warms my skin, the wind caresses my body, and the air tastes pure and delectable, like honey. The sparrow lands on the arm of my chair–now woven out of vines–and sings a song of harmony and balance. Almost without thinking, I decide I would rather turn to stone here than return to my luxurious life in the California hills. Mom and dad always talk of the good they’re doing; after all, they bought solar panels.

I look at my sparrow, and it knows. With its kiss, I am here forever.