In the cool of the morning, as a breeze blew in the back, as the sun peeked over the top of the duplexes on the other side of the alley, as birdsong filled the backyard, I watched a Sparrow. It flew in, gliding between the tree trunks, landing on the leaves beside a long log that forms the boundary between our semi-civilized lawn and the less-civilized butterfly garden.
One hop, two hops, three. It tried to pick up a bundle of ball moss, but the bundle was too big. So the Sparrow moved on.
One hop, two hops, three. It picked at a stick from yesterday’s clean-up, but the stick was too long, making the Sparrow look like a cartoon weightlifter trying to press it above its head. So the Sparrow moved on.
One hop, two hops, three. It grabbed a sprig of St. Augustine that I pulled up yesterday, since it was making an unwelcome advance from the semi-civilized lawn to the less-civilized butterfly garden. And here, the Sparrow succeeded.
The Sparrow flapped its wings furiously and slowly became airborne (although only barely), flying off to some nest in some distant tree back on the other side of the alley.