The Bold Little Bird

         Up high in the night sky a sparrow was struggling, flapping its wings harder and harder against the discordant swirling of the wind, pain growing in its chest, still far away from its target, but ascending through the air nonetheless.  In spite of its enthusiasm to progress upward through these pressuring heights, its wings began to slow from ache of effort, making it hard to flap… harder to flap.  Before long the bird surrendered to the sky, just as it had done many times before, and so it began to sail down, down, down through the moon-lit clouds, diving once more to its terrestrial world. 
         
        Disappointed, the sparrow landed upon the boughs of an ancient oak tree and looked up at the sky with great frustration, deeply wondering what that great, glowing orb was floating high above; yearning to know what those white, flickering ornaments were that flecked the night sky.  As a gentle breeze wafted through the leaves and cooled the bird’s bushed and burning feathers, an old owl, one that has seen much in its life, spoke from the darkened bowels of the tree, at first startling the sparrow, whose gaze had been transfixed upon the heavens.
         
        “Why is it that every evening you vanish beyond the clouds, only to return in dismay?” the elderly owl asked.  His voice was sincere and of a refined quality.
         
        The sparrow, still breathing heavily from its fruitless flight, turned and looked upon the owl, whose yellow eyes and large, brown feathers were a formidable sight, indeed.  Nevertheless, astonished that the owl knew not why he had challenged the sky every night, the sparrow nodded his beak upward, indicating the heavens, and said, “I know not why you sit with your talons safely tethered to the ordinary.”  He raised his right wing, pointed it toward the sky. “I wish to see that part of the world which revokes me so. I wish to land atop that glowing sphere which pours radiance onto the night…” the sparrow lowered its head and admitted, “…yet I cannot attain it, as feelings of incredible weight press heavily upon me in the heightened sky.”
         
        The owl’s beak bent to a clever smile, a knowing smile, as if he held within his thoughts a unique intelligence.  The wise owl, who has seen and heard that which few ever have, looked down toward the bold little bird, who had raised its head once more and now starred out beyond in frustration.  After inhaling deeply, the owl prepared to tell the sparrow the truth of those things which so many others like him, in their faultless ignorance, had been void of realizing.  He then uttered this revelation, in a kind and appropriate way, as to not destroy any hope to which the little bird embraced.          
         
        “My friend, I have watched you every night for so long a period of time that even my vast chamber of retention has failed to understand it.  I see in you that same desire and desperation as I once had, at a time when my wings possessed the ability to fly high and conquer vistas unknown to our kind.  But that was long ago.  I am simply too old to do such things.”
         
        The defeated bird turned to the owl, bewildered at his empowering suggestion, moreover, surprised that the owl had at one time tried to reach what he currently sought.  The owl was pleased to see that he had captivated the sparrow’s attention, and so he continued.
         
        “You look surprised to learn that you are not the only one who has tried to ascend beyond the world to which we are bound.  You may be wondering whether I have touched earth beyond the blue sky, or, to a much farther place, beyond that bright and mysterious globe floating in the darkness which shrouds us as at this moment…”                                                                                   
       
        “Have you? The sparrow interrupted.  “Tell me that you have and I will believe you.  Tell me what you know so that I might learn the ways of your wise and sacred kind and one day attain the unknown.”
         
        “I tell you now that the pedestal you wish to attain is not of this earth; it rests entirely separate from all that is familiar to us,” the owl assured. “It is not of this world, and I think it impossible for you to reach such a distant place; though I imagine that with your ambition you can, in good time, accomplish much in your life.
         
        Glowering, the bold little bird fluttered up to the gnarled branch on which the owl was perched. “What is it called, oh wise owl?  If anything you surely must know its name.” The bird turned, looked up solemnly at the luminous white disc, and, gazing in awe, whispered, “I wish to display my respect by calling it by its name.”   
         
        The owl raised his mighty wing, rested it upon the sparrow’s shoulder, and, utterly charmed by the fowl’s inquisition, said:
         
        “What you seek rises opposite to noon.  What you seek is called, by men, the moon.” 
         
        The sparrow neither blinked nor did he avert his gaze from the sky.  He did, however, speak, and from his mouth he uttered the name slowly, smoothly, and passionately. 
         
        “Ah…moooon.  So that is what you are.  Moon… moon…moon,” he repeated, the word tasting sweet upon his tongue.  He continued, “I wish to fly to the moon.  But why then, precious moon, can I not reach you?”
         
        “The reasons are infinite, little one,” the owl remarked anticipating further inquiry.
         
        “But why is it so, wise owl? Why are there limits to such brilliant things?”
And it was at this moment when the owl unleashed a wealth of enlightenment upon the sparrow.  The owl spoke of great things—remarkable things—and of these things the owl said this:

        The owl told the bird of space and nebula and all that had been so diligently contrived in the vastness of space.  He told him of the strength of geological processes and the birth of mountains.  He told him of earth and the intricacies of genetics and the components of life.  He told him of the ocean and of its early life, from which all things living had originated.  Moving from subject to subject, the sparrow attentive as ever, the owl spoke of time periods long ago—eons past—when enormous beings characterized by grotesque, reptilian features savagely ruled the world and from which many species of birds have since evolved.  At this the sparrow looked up sharply, his beak agape with wonder.  Employing his ancestral knowledge, the wise owl further mystified the sparrow by speaking of the upright walking beasts who currently ruled the world—the very ones who’ve named the moon: man, he called them, a bitter glare in his eyes.  He explained to the sparrow the many doctrines—philosophical and theological— of this hideous race, such as the Great Lie, whose Son divided time (BC / AD) and was perhaps the greatest of charlatans.  The owl revealed the dynamics of why black was night and why day was bright.  He went on and on, speaking of things such as the four seasons and how they influenced the growth of earth’s treasures, such as the tree they were in…
         
        The small bird was totally transfixed, taciturn in spite of being absolutely overwhelmed.  Over the next several hours, as the moon slowly waned, the old owl shared his knowledge with the curious bird, eliciting several questions and often spending several minutes to answer him.

        Life in the eyes of the sparrow had suddenly grown complex—yet he understood its essence.  And he believed what the owl had said, for owls possess ruthless diligence of acute stealth, retention, and the capacity of the greatest of minds.  They are regarded with grand esteem.
         
        The bold little bird said nothing further and gazed into the cosmos with new eyes and new intuition.  And as the timbre of his rushing heart relaxed and the levels of his inward boldness increased restlessly, he sat calm and quiet, marveling with his new angle of thought, staring intently onto the moon and distant stars.  He yearned to know what others knew not.  He was mesmerized by what the owl had said.
         
        For several minutes the sparrow remained seated in a tight and delicate posture: legs tucked into himself; wings folded and pressed securely against his poised body; feathery breast bowed outward and his head angled slightly upward, peering through his new eyes at the falling moon, all the while feeling his blood ebb and flow under the influence of its gravity, much like its gravity influences the rise and fall of the sea; he was intent on trying once more to access its scarred and glowing surface.  It must be done, he thought.
          
        The bold sparrow then stood, wished the owl a pleasant evening, and told him that he wished to know more of the world.  The owl kindly agreed to share his knowledge and asked the sparrow to meet back at the tree on the following evening.  The sparrow complied, and they both flew separately away, into the black night.
         
        When on the following evening the owl alighted upon the moon-lit boughs of the tree where both he and the sparrow had discussed so much, he was baffled to learn that the sparrow was not here as he said he would be.  He flitted from branch-to-branch, trying to locate the sparrow.  Ah, but as the owl was searching the upper-most branches of the tree, he noticed something high in the sky, beyond the moon-silvered leaves; something awesome, something incredibly inspiring.  And in that cool night sky glowing with lunar rays, the bold little bird, silhouetted against that great, glowing orb, was flying higher now and higher still.