Once there was a little lark sparrow soaring high above the earth, higher than the other sparrows he knew. From up there, he could see the city that had once been a fruitful land, its expanse lined with endless rows of orange groves. His black and tawny plumage fluttered earthward along the rushing winds of the season. Streaks of brown and white adorned his head, while his dark eyes gazed upon the streets below. Street after street stretched in uniform patterns, with houses built side by side beneath the evening light. In those houses, people would come and go, their faces marked by weariness and woe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When the sparrow was young, he often trilled a joyful song. Now, he no longer sang, for he had seen the sorrows of the city from above. In his quiet contemplation, he often wondered what man needed most.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was one last orange grove in the city, a place he loved to linger. The glow of the moon pierced his sorrowful heart and stirred a glimmer of hope. The scent of oranges delighted his senses as he hopped from branch to branch in search of insects.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPerhaps I shall nest here tonight,\u201d said the little lark sparrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, if you do, keep to that side of the tree, for tomorrow I will emerge as a beautiful butterfly!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d asked the sparrow. He glanced at the next branch and saw a plump caterpillar, looking very pleased with himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s me, O sparrow, the caterpillar who will become a butterfly tomorrow!\u201d The caterpillar peeked out from his cocoon, wiggled slightly, then yawned and said, \u201cWhile you, when you wake, will remain a sparrow. Ha!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The little lark sparrow felt a pang of sorrow at this thought. Saying nothing more, he flew to the next tree, seeking rest. He preferred the overgrown grass and wild brush of abandoned lots, but the grove was at peace tonight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe caterpillar is right,\u201d mused the sparrow. \u201cTomorrow, I will wake as nothing more than a lowly bird.\u201d He sighed, drifting to sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every night, the little lark sparrow dreamed great dreams. This night was no exception. He dreamed of man, of his mystery, his small universe within. Something about man was special.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In his dream, he saw a man gazing at him with kindness as he perched upon the vine of a vast vineyard. The dusk light spread across the sky, soft pinks and deep violets caressing the clouds. In that moment, the little lark sparrow felt joy, true joy, as the man reached out His hand with a gentleness he had never known. The sparrow, without hesitation, hopped onto His finger, trusting completely. The man smiled at him with warmth in His eyes. Who was this Man?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Suddenly, the sparrow awoke with a great crash, landing upon the ground. Startled, he realized he had fallen from his dream. But something was different. He looked down and saw that he was no longer a bird. He had become a man!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He raised his hands in wonder, counting ten fingers. He wiggled his toes, marveling at the strange sensation. Yet it felt as though he had always been this way. Rising to his feet, he brushed the dust from his clothing. He donned a brown plaid button-down and trousers, much like the shades of his feathers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As he stood at his height, a delicate flutter caught his eye. From the tree above, a butterfly emerged, its wings catching the light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh!\u201d he exclaimed, surprised by the sound of his own voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The caterpillar had become a butterfly. And he had become a man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man who had once been a sparrow stepped onto the pavement, unsteady on his feet. The city he had watched from above now loomed around him, its buildings and tangled streets no longer distant shapes but a world pressing in from every side. Neon signs buzzed in cracked windows, and the air smelled of cigarettes, grease, and the faint metallic tang of rain on asphalt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His stomach tightened with hunger. As a bird, he had never worried about where his next meal would come from. The earth had always provided, its seeds in the cracks of sidewalks, insects hiding beneath leaves. But now, hunger was sharper, more insistent. A hollow gnawing that would not let him forget.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He wandered past liquor stores and pawnshops, their windows covered in metal grates. A laundromat hummed with the sound of tumbling clothes, and the glow of fluorescent lights flickered above a row of plastic chairs. At the mouth of an alley, a man sat against a brick wall, his hands wrapped around a paper cup. He rattled the few coins inside, his breath visible in the night air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The former sparrow knelt beside him. \u201cAre you hungry?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man gave a tired chuckle. \u201cAin\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen you know what I need.\u201d He shook the cup again. \u201cBut it won\u2019t last.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The words settled in his mind as he walked on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He passed a small diner with fogged-up windows, the kind of place where the scent of frying oil clung to the walls. A woman in a faded uniform stood outside, dumping a bucket of dirty water onto the pavement. It splashed near his feet, and she gave him a glance, half-apology, half-suspicion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou looking for something?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The former sparrow hesitated. \u201cWork.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She scoffed. \u201cYou homeless?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t have a home,\u201d he admitted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She studied him, taking in his rumpled clothes, the way he held himself\u2014wary, uncertain, as if he weren\u2019t used to standing on two feet. \u201cYou got any experience washing dishes?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t matter.\u201d She tossed the bucket aside and jerked her chin toward the door. \u201cCome on. Alejandro\u2019s short-staffed. You work, you eat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So he washed dishes. The water scalded his hands, but he did not complain. He worked through the night, scrubbing, rinsing, stacking plates until his arms ached. And when the rush was over, the woman\u2014Marta, he learned\u2014slid a plate of food across the counter toward him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou work, you eat,\u201d she reminded him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few days passed this way. The city was loud, restless. He watched people chase after money, clutching it in their hands, afraid of losing what little they had. Others wasted it as soon as they earned it, pouring it into cups that only burned away the hours. He saw love, too. Families gathered around, sharing a meal. But he also saw its absence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One night, as he left the diner, he spotted the man in the alleyway again, hands tucked in a hoodie\u2019s pocket too thin for the cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The former sparrow stopped. He reached into his pocket, feeling the few crumpled bills Marta had given him for the night\u2019s work. It wasn\u2019t much, just enough for a meal. He pulled the money out and held it toward the man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man looked at him, eyes shadowed beneath the flickering streetlight. \u201cYou giving this to me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man took the bills, staring at them for a long moment before shaking his head. \u201cYou\u2019re new to this, ain\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The former sparrow frowned. \u201cNew to what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTo losing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As he walked away, the former sparrow thought about love. Was this what love was? A flickering streetlight, fading as soon as it was needed most?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On a quieter street, his gaze fell upon a modest building of silent devotion, its door left ajar. Inside, he observed several people kneeling, their heads bowed in a silence he could not quite decipher. A sweet-smelling savor drifted through the air, lending the space a subtle, mysterious calm. Above it all was a wooden cross.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And there He was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Man from his dream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The former sparrow fell to his knees. \u201cIt is You,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And in that moment, the ache within him, deeper than hunger, deeper than any longing, was met. Not by food. Not by wealth. Not even by the love of others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But by Him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tears filled his eyes. A song stirred within him, one he had not sung since he was a young bird soaring high above the earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He lifted his voice, singing once more. Not for himself alone, but for all those who had forgotten how.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Once there was a little lark sparrow soaring high above the earth, higher than the other sparrows he knew. From up there, he could see the city that had once been a fruitful land, its expanse lined with endless rows of orange groves. His black and tawny plumage fluttered earthward along the rushing winds of…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_kad_post_transparent":"","_kad_post_title":"","_kad_post_layout":"","_kad_post_sidebar_id":"","_kad_post_content_style":"","_kad_post_vertical_padding":"","_kad_post_feature":"","_kad_post_feature_position":"","_kad_post_header":false,"_kad_post_footer":false,"_kad_post_classname":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1384","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-astounding-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1384","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1384"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1384\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1385,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1384\/revisions\/1385"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1384"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1384"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1384"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}