" N O T H I N G  I S
B E A U T I F U L  F R O M
E V E R Y  P O I N T  O F  V I E W."
Horace

" I  A M  D I S T U R B E D  B Y
W H A T  I  S E E ,
B U T  I  W I L L
B E A R  W I T N E S S."
Eric Maisel

I noticed a smudge on our picture window. I looked closely and it was actually a tiny clump of wispy little feathers stuck to the outside glass surface.

The little bird awoke from its shelter deep within the boughs of a pine tree. It fluffed its feathers as protection against the cold. It felt the early morning hunger pangs gnawing at its stomach.

The little bird had found the feeder yesterday in a narrow alley between two houses. The rich taste of peanut butter and suet was a lingering memory and an aperitif in anticipation of breakfast.

It fluttered to the end of the bough. It peered anxiously right, left and centre for those furry things on all fours that could sit so quietly and move so quickly.

Seeing nothing but bits of white floating benignly in the air, the little bird swooped to a branch of a taller tree for a safer and better look. A bird's eye view stretched across the suburban landscape.

All seemed well. Bursting with song the little bird prepared to descend and land on the feeder a short distance away.

Airborne, enlivened by the crisp air against its face, the little bird dodged and darted through the falling bits of white.

Out of the corner of its eye, it spotted another bird of the same feather dodging and darting. The little bird turned sharply to meet that new friend.

A little bird collided with our picture window, I am sure. I can only imagine the events leading up to that moment.

Was the little bird drawn to that traumatic event by its own reflection? I have heard that "birds of a feather flock together" so there is logic to my story.

Did it survive, struggling to the nearest branch to recover its senses? I can only hope so.

Pausing to wonder about a smudge on that window opened a window on a wider world for me. That tiny clump of wispy feathers suddenly became a highly significant event in the life of another, rather than a trivial annoyance in my own little world.

I really felt the impact of the little bird on the window. I had compassion and empathy for my fine-feathered friend from my sense of what the experience might have been like for it.

I am now more curious about the potential stories from the lives of others that underlie details that might otherwise seem trivial to me. I become even more curious about the storyteller when I view the contents of the story as if I were looking through that person's eyes. I more clearly understand that there are many windows on the world.