Perspective

A gentle little thing, a sparrow,
Perched himself upon a ruined fence of stones
Beneath the summer sun,
Protected from its glaring rays by rustling leaves
That swayed above him,
Casting dappled shadows by his side.
It was the perfect day.

Along the wall, just up the hill,
A subtle movement caught the sparrow’s ever-watchful eye:
A lovely creature came, a cat
With fluid, captivating stride
And fur as black as night.
Without a thought of care
The feline strode with confidence and poise
Along the trail of rocks. She paused,
And with her paw, and sometimes with her tongue,
She smoothed her soft and silken coat of fur
Until it fairly gleamed.

The sparrow, head to one side then the other tilted,
Watched this spectacle with curiosity
Until the cat, herself detecting that her ritual was not unobserved,
Graced her neighbor with a warm, beguiling smile
Intended to disarm.
Ostensibly without a purpose other than continuing
Her happy, carefree afternoon excursion,
She approached.

The little bird upon the heap of stones
Now had two options, and he must pick one.
Either he must stay and meet the cat,
Whose green, enchanting eyes bespoke a chance
To know excitement, sport, and games
If only he would wait
And, doing nothing, see what pleasures chance might bring his way;
Or else, launched with a tiny hop,
He might propel himself into the air
And, flapping tiny wings, soar with the breeze
Away
From every hope of undiscovered fun.

The sparrow hesitated, but not long.
He flew.

Silly little thing! Now he might never learn
What gay diversions still remained behind,
Watching as he flitted through the air
And thinking of what might have been
Had not the sparrow been so wont to flee.

Silly thing!
What had he to fear?