A Compass with No Cardinal

West

(the image is Elena Carozzi Paper Bosco Rosa Modern Italian Wallpaper)

A misty gush of warmth erupted from the rising sun, bedding the rolling hills with new life. The unfailing sweetness of dawn traveling along the land to discover a small, melancholy forest amid an open field. The empty trees were quiet and sluggish to the fresh morning breeze, as it urged each slumbering creature to great the welcoming sun. The trees were wide; the bark was thick and coated with moss. Their tangling roots covered the ground like waves of an evergreen sea, muddled atop each other to a degree that if they split, one wouldn't find the earth for a couple of miles deep. This ocean of fossilized giants stood tall and stern. Until a twitter echoed through the hallow woods, erupting an uncontrollable outburst of color and leaves. Suddenly the trees were sleepy no longer. With red jays, sparrows, robins, and owls, all buzzing in confusing swarms while singing each their morning song. Owlets and egrets, and finches too soared in a gypsy colored coalition of feathers painting across the forest leaves. With cardinals and parrots, toucans and canaries. Maybe even a snipe or two, dancing along with swinging chimes and flutes which dangled from the branches. Squawking and cheeping, whistling, and singing in a jovially mixed chorus. All the magic of joy and life spread from tree to tree, with shining rays of golden sun upon the rustling plants. Utterly, and entirely warm and vibrant, for all but one lonesome song thrush.

Invisibly subsiding, beneath this marvelous rhythmic painting, sat the song thrush on a loose tree root. Her camouflaging feathers allowing her to sink into the tree's safe arms. She would sit there often (almost every day) to watch her brethren fly about carelessly. She had always envied them for how easy they made it seem. However, no one paid much mind to her in return. Known to be quite the sourpuss, she was not much welcome to fly among them, you see. The reason being of what she pondered was out of the ordinary for most birds. She simply could not understand what made music so extraordinary. Isolated from her peers, all she did any day was sit by her lonesome. Analyzing and calculating the movements and sounds the other birds were making. Still no matter what she thought, whether it be from rhythm, beat or rhyme, she could not tell you what made their songs so captivating. How could they fly and holler without a care, while she could not bear the songs they shared? It is not fair; the bird would say. After years of this confusion, surrounded by all these voices, she developed a disdain for all thing's noises. For every rhapsody they rehearsed, it all rang the same. More loud and disruptive with every verse. Still, for better or for worse, she could do nothing but sit silently by herself.

"What is it that you do here all day long?" uttered an an unfamiliar voice, plucking her from the stream of thoughts she was so used to drowning in. the voice was gravely and deep yet sweetly sincere. Such a voice hadn't spoken with her before, so, it was a shock to find a lumbering man, mossed with age, arch over the bird. His face was tan, warm, and meek, with thin folds of skin spilling down his face. A sage clothed in a white suit and slippers. The blazer hung open, unbuttoned with no shirt beneath, and his frail shoulders carried a heavily furred cape of elk skin. It was the king of this forest. With his walking stick in hand and a bronzed band around his head topped with feathers. His eyes were squinted, looking profusely tired. But within his rusted eyelids boar two emeralds, gleaming with interest. Heavy and aged, they looked straight through the bird's small frame; as though they knew exactly what troubled her.

"What is your name, sweet song thrush?" asked the Western King gently.

"Your majesty!" she jumped "I-I am Gaia" Bowed the fowl in search of her words tensely keeping her eyes lowered. No one ever came to talk to her, let alone notice her feathers apart from the bark on which she sat. Neither did she ever expect anyone to, especially not the King. Every day he would shuffle by in the distance surrounded by birds as he playfully whistled through his wooden staff like a flute. Wandering the woods as though he was dreaming, and even now he curiously marveled the song thrush slightly sleeping. Surely, she had done something wrong. Or worse, she hadn't done anything at all. He simply came to kick her out for her mere existence.