I’m watching a sparrow. He’s grasping with his little bird feet to the skeletal, barren top of a windblown bush, just by the shore. Both sides of the top of his feathery and fuzzy head are decorated with a screaming bright splash of yellow. His brown body blends completely into the surrounding bush but for this bit of canary coloring.
But what really sets him apart is his song. Perched with headstrong determination, steeled to the wind and grasping to a branch, he lets out a beautiful trilling chirp in response to one of his fellow sparrows further down the beach. As the wind gusts even harder and his branch sways by unpredictable turns, I’m amazed at this little fellow’s plucky determination — deftly maneuvering his perching as he sings out with almost intentional glee.
A really strong and sudden bit of gale blows him off the branch and he swoops down below the wind and flaps to a landing a few feet downwind, behind the shelter of the bush. I can no longer see him in the underbrush. I can’t even spot that patch of yellow.
But I still hear him, singing his sparrow song, undeterred at being rudely blown off his lovely high perch.
Today, I say to myself, I will be like this sparrow, and sing out regardless of where the fates may blow me.
Why so many thoughts of her? Do I still love her? Or do I want to be her? The whole glossy fashion magazine life – the right brands, the right places. Somewhere between lululemon and YSL is nirvana. There was – is – a regal grace about the woman that’s really sexy. The pinnacle of a plug for United Colors of Benetton extolling the virtue of temperance.
I imagine her also in a luxuriance only dreamed of in some Arabian legend of gold and wishes granted. Delighting in massage after massage at the hands of big strong men while little Asian ladies give the eternal pedicure – a kind of state of permanent blissful grooming.
In my thoughts, her Adidas tennis skirt is always hitched up revealingly, instantly recalling the après game, set and match. Her soul served in a chilled vodka (Absolut?) and cranberry cocktail, sitting on a mosaic-covered table overlooking the town of Santorini – bathed in sun and the snazziest French produit de soleil. She is certainly a tart du tropique.
Then there is the innate mastery of arts gastronomique. She will always be rosy and smiling, filled with Paris, fine wine and enough chocolate mousse to choke une cheval. Her lovely long blonde hair forever bathed in the candlelight of a bustling Parisian restaurant. Dinner at Chez Janou, for the rest of time.
Well, anyway, cheers to you madame. On avait l’amour, si meme pas pour longtemps.