She listens to the delicate fluttering of sparrows’ wings, tiny messengers. The sound reminds her of life – struggling, beating, rising, flying, and now dissolving into space.

I think the purest of souls, those with the most fragile of hearts, must be meant for a short life. They can’t be tethered or held in your palm. Just like a sparrow, they light...

Presently, one after another, like shyly hopping sparrows, her friends arrived, black against the snow.

…the winter is kind and leaves red berries on the boughs for hungry sparrows…