There’s this house inside a forest. It’s full of windows. But this morning, there’s just one that’s open.

A little bird flies in. It’s soon confounded, not knowing whether it’s in, or, out, trying to find its way back, restless upon the sills, pecking in panic, against windows, closed with clear as crystal glass.

The light changes all the time.
The bird grows tired.

If only it could be still, it would feel the light breeze flowing in, fragrant with the forest air, from that one open window, by which it had come.

If only it could be still, for that one precious moment, it would feel the insistent breeze. It would know its way back, to the freedom of its forest nest.

Would it be still, before it’s all spent, before it can flutter no more?

Just when it all seems hopeless, its mate comes calling, at just this one, open, window!