The Sparrow Flies by Hersh Solomon (books to read in your 20s female .TXT) 📕

I finally entered the front gate, home’s shady relief beckoning from summer’s furnace. An infant sparrow stood in the middle of the path. It glanced up and greeted me with a wink. I stooped and reached out as if to pick it up, but it either couldn’t move or saw my ruse a

nd called the bluff, feet remaining firmly planted on the ground. It cocked its head.

Something about this ravine’s ambivalence was amiss. I imagined the experience of mental terror preceding gruesome horror awaiting it when one of the cats came out. It looked up at me unruffled, unstressed, and without pain, apparently lacking an appropriate fear of death. It made me sad frowned.

I knocked on the door. Pete answered. I alerted him to the situation, and bade him to come and share in my pity.

‘What’s the humane thing to do?’ I asked. It’s a living soul, a life, equal to yours and mine. ‘We could cCall the RSPCA?’

‘Yeah, it’s only a little ...’ Pete trailed off.

‘Yeah, I know, but ...’ I echoed. We sighed, shrugged, at our apathy and trudged back inside, where , where I kicked off my clogs and I made a refreshinged with glass of rasberry icy-lemonadeade andwhile watcheding the news. Pete went out at one pointduring the weather forecast. Maybe he’s taken the sparrow to the vet.

I went out later and the sparrow was still there, , minus its head. Its maggot-infested carcass still still greets mes me everytime I step through the gate. when I come home. I wonder Hhow much longer it will greet mewill I heed its headless ‘hello.?’

I wonder: diddid it ever feel learn to be afraid?

—

Three months later and I’m rubbing sleep from my eyes and drinking juice from the carton in dawn’s the cool light of dawn. when aA squeaking kerfuffle sound emanaitses from the laundry not once, nor twice, but thrice. I walk in and passively watch as and send the the sparrow sees me, flies into a a panic, and ; it furiously bangs its head frantically and repeatedly bangs its head against the sky-window, attempting to escape. I step back into the hallway. and the sparrow settlesThe sparrow settles.

Thirst quenched, I yawn, scratch, and I hear the sweet song of sleep’s embrace calling serenading me back to bed. Thump, thump, goes the sparrow’s head against the glass. How’d you get into this predicament? I grumble and look for any felines that may be lurking—curse, and check to see if any of the cats are around—no sign of them. I glance back in the laundry at the sparrow. How’d you get into this predicament? . There’s no way out from the laundry except by coming back into the hallway.

I start to make happywhistle and, chirpy sounds. ‘Birdy, birdy,’ I say, sliding the back door all the way open. ‘Here, birdy-birdy-birdy.’ I go back into the laundry and Back in the laundry, the birdsparrow isn’t seduced. It fraenetically flies into the slams into the window some more, increasingly frustrated at this invisible barrer between itself and freedom.strange phenomenon, thinking that if it flies harder it might break through. Thump! Thump! Thump! Visible signs of brain damage are appearing—Iit’s getting sluggish.

Pete wi'll be up soon. I decide to leave him a note so I can go back to bed without feeling guilt-free: ‘Sparrow in laundry can’t figure its way out. Tried to lure it—unsuccessfully.’ All of a suddend then: deja vu.

Haven’t we already done this? I blink at the scrawled wordswonder with a furrowed brow. Haven’t we already been here? Didn’t this already fail, This is what I did last time, when the sparrow died and I wrote a little epitaph for it? Something and that resulted in a dead sparrow with a story ode to it. Something different has to happendifferent has to happen, this time. Something’s gotta change., this time.

I throw the note in the trash and, sit on the sofa, . I wait quietly, and am jilted from sleep’s precipice when, nod off for a few minutes, and am called to action by the sparrow suddenly hopping s out of the laundry in the lounge room with a chirp. I get up and move lumber towards toward it, hoping it’ll flee to freedom trying to scare it out the back door, but it flies around the living room instead, in another direction, looking for a high place to land, before finally tiring and coming to rest on the couch I’ve just vacated.

We look at each other eye-to-eye. Hey, I know you, says the sparrow, hopping about. . You’re the one that killed my friend, aren’t you? It cocked its head.

I didn’t kill him; I just let him die.

It was a her, and you could have saved her, said ys the sparrow. You’re as good as a murderer, in my eyes. I suppose you’re going to murder me, now, too, hmm? Well, , get on with it.

I go around the living room opening the windows. The sparrow watches. Standing before the largest window, I thrust it open and , exposinge the sky’s glaring light of the sky to its eyes. ‘Here, birdy-birdy,’ I say, clicking my fingers.

Look into my eyes, says the sparrow. Have I no dignity?See you no dignity? See you no class? says the sparrow . Have I no honour? ItThe sparrow hopsped off the couch and , down the hallway, and stands at to the front door, which it stood before. I’ll exit depart from the front main entrance—door like a civilised gentleman! , it said. I followed and tried go to open it, but the sparrow it hasd an ulterior motive; it hopsped into Pete’s room and flies into a frenzy, crashing against the flew into the curtains , creating a ruckus and giving him an unpleasant to cause a rude awakening-up call. ‘What the?!’

‘It just hopped in ...’ I said.

He spriangs out of bed and fled es the room. ‘There were two of them inside the other day,’ he says, headed to the kitchen for coffee.to the kitchen to make coffee. ‘There were two of them inside the other day,’ he said, on his way .

Yeah, you too! cursesd the sparrow , shaking its fistas Pete walked away. You’re just as much to blame as he ie iss. It nodsded at me from its curtain perch.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ I saidy.

I opened the front door and , slip went backinto to bed., and closed my eyes and watcheds the sparrow hop-hop-hops outside and flyies away.

Text: Eugene Samolin
Publication Date: 09-09-2020

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
Sparrows