A white sparrow stands out against all the garden green. It cannot hide. When it streaks across the foliage your eye is forced to follow.
It is a rarity normally destined for a shorter lifespan. It attracts all the birds of prey. The sparrow brood accepts it for they have no choice. The parents do their best to help it, though all will scatter at the shadow of a hawk.
One spring my garden played host to this white sparrow you see here. Every day I watched for it, hoping it had lived another day. There was nothing I could do to change its fate. All I could do was hope.
Every time I spotted it, I rejoiced. I kept my binoculars close that spring. It played among the treetops across several fenced yards. I kept my fingers crossed. It was never meant to be a pet. The natural laws held its fate in their hands. Sometimes luck steps in to help, though it is never obliged to do so.
By the middle of that summer I no longer spotted it. I never saw evidence that it had met the merciless claws of a predator, so I will never know for sure what happened or why it failed to come my way again. I can only guess.
I have not seen another white sparrow since that spring and summer. When I am reminded of its presence in my garden, I like to think luck was on its side, and it traveled elsewhere, following a more abundant path.
movingforwardslowly 