The Sparrow
by Michael Robles
Creative Works… 180
The sparrow twitched his neck. The moon’s glow gave the tree branch a subtle comfort, an otherworldly radiance. As he kicked one of his thin, wood-like legs to the left, he felt a tickling sensation. He watched the street lamps flickered on and off, glitching from an abyssal black to a warm yellow. The sparrow hummed to himself a twilight tune. The streets were empty; no one to guide, as of now. In a fast-paced beat, he hopped up to the top branch of the oak tree he was residing in. His ember wings flapped. No breeze, no howling wind from the gods of the sky… just silence. Bliss. The oak tree resided next to a massive structure. The sparrow could hardly see where the concrete palace and the sky met. An endless array of windows stood in a pattern across the giant building. Debating on taking a peek into one, he wondered if any of them were ready. Quickly, he decided against it. I couldn’t possibly fly that high, he thought. No, the trees are where I stay. Close to where they walk. As his eyes met the ground, the red sparrow shifted his gaze across the street. He saw a man in the corner of his eye resting on a bench. He was rather young, possibly mid-20s. He was wearing a black tee-shirt with a light brown cardigan that draped to his thighs. The sparrow was fixated on his brown boots tapping quite vigorously. Suddenly, the sparrow leaped from his resting spot into the air, flapping his wings in a nearly supersonic state. Hardly anyone would be able to see his small red body in the night sky. Nothing more than a blood-red blur swept
