A Finch Named Frank

I'd like to tell you a story.

Once, in a magical mountain town, there lived a dovely little gal who resided in the rainfall and ferns. Every sunrise she would throw open the curtains, pull the shades, bid the trees Good Morning and check on the growing pile of pine cones left on her stoop. She brewed her coffee dark but poured in cream, she bundled up her toes but left her fingers exposed. She would sit for hours in front of the windows, watching crystalline droplets catch the light as they slid down lanky branches and understood each one was a profound message. She noted tuffs of moss poking cheekily though the leaves and stubby fir needles glowing blue at the tip, understanding that they were fulfilling their life's purpose by simply being. But most importantly she watched Frank.

Frank was a bit of a rascal (but that only make her love him more), always being scolded by the jays, peeping in on the gal from his side of the window ledge, and playing eagle games with the chickadees. The rain fell thick, the fescue frosted over, and snow capped the peak of the mountain. The gal worried for Frank: would he be warm, would he eat well, would he be safe through the winter (for these were her own fears, manifested and transfered)?

But Frank showed no fear.

For Frank knew something the gal sometimes forgot. Frank's place in life was here and now, Frank's purpose was to be Frank, and because of that, he would make it. Destiny had no time for fear, and certainly no patience for worry because the path was much too long for that. So on the good days, Frank would shake his umber tail feathers just so the gal would see Joy. He would sing with all the bravado he could muster just so the gal could hear Trust. He would preen and leave one snowy plume just so the gal could feel Hope. For Frank's purpose was to be Frank, but it was also to remind the gal. Day in, day out, Frank fulfilled his destiny. And for the gift of Frank, the gal gave thanks.

"A Finch Named Frank" 5"x5"